Category: English

My name is Cassie, and I spend my days hustling on an e-bike, delivering packages across the city. The other day, I was mid-route when a sleek black sedan whipped past me, tires hissing against the pavement, and sent a tidal wave of muddy street water entirely over my legs. Furious, I glared at the receding taillights and muttered under my breath, “I hope your damn tire blows.” The words had barely left my lips when a massive BANG echoed down the avenue. The sedan swerved. The tire had actually blown. I thought it was just a freak accident, a stroke of karmic luck. But the very next day, the owner of the car tracked me down. He slid a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills across a table—five grand, easy—and gave me a sharp, crooked smile. “How about we play a game, Cassie? You hurl whatever curse you want at me. Every time it lands, I pay you.” I stared at his face—a face that was almost unfairly, dangerously handsome—and only one thought crossed my mind: This guy is completely out of his mind, and he’s practically begging me to ruin his life. 1 My name is Cassie, and I deliver boxes for a living. The sun was brutal that afternoon. The asphalt was baking, turning soft and sticky beneath the soles of my worn-out Converse. I was straddling my e-bike, the front basket overflowing with cardboard packages of every shape and size. Sweat dripped steadily down my forehead, pooling in the corners of my eyes, stinging like crazy. I blinked hard, trying to squeeze the acidic burn away. That was when the black sedan rolled past me. It wasn’t even going that fast, but the splash it kicked up was spectacular. It had rained hard the night before, leaving deep, oily puddles along the curb. The water hit me dead on. It was freezing, and thick with city grime. I hit the brakes, looking down at my favorite pair of vintage denim. A second ago, they had been perfectly faded blue. Now, they looked like I’d just waded through a swamp. I jerked my head up. The black car had come to a smooth stop at the red light just a hundred yards ahead. The driver’s side window rolled down, revealing the sharp profile of a man. High cheekbones, a strong, aristocratic nose. As if feeling the sheer weight of my glare, he turned his head and looked at me in the rearview mirror. Just one look. I kicked the kickstand down, planting my feet firmly on the pavement. I stared at the back of his car, speaking into the thick, humid air between us. “Your tire is going to blow.” My voice was barely a whisper. The traffic drowned it out instantly. Having said my piece, I ducked my head, dug a rag out of my basket, and started furiously scrubbing at my jeans. If the mud dried, it would stain forever. The light turned green. The black sedan accelerated, and the moment it did, I heard a heavy, sickening POP. It sounded like a gunshot, but muffled, heavier. My hand froze on my jeans. I looked up. The luxury car was limping to a halt in the dead center of the intersection, leaving a thick, black skid mark in its wake. The rear left tire was completely shredded, the wheel rim grinding agonizingly against the pavement. The entire chassis tilted drunkenly to one side. The driver stepped out. He was dressed in a tailored, charcoal-black suit, his leather oxfords gleaming in the sun. He walked slowly around to the back of the car, staring down at the ruined rubber. His brow furrowed into a tight, dark knot. He kicked the tire. I hopped back onto my e-bike, squeezed the throttle, and glided past him without a second glance. I finished my delivery route. Later that night, sitting in my cramped, overpriced studio apartment, I tossed my jeans into a plastic basin, dumped in a heavy scoop of cheap detergent, and scrubbed until my knuckles were raw. It didn’t work. The dark stains were baked into the fabric. I stared at the wet denim, my throat tight. I didn’t say a word. My mouth had always been like this. Ever since I was a little kid. Whatever I said came true. When I was seven, the neighbor’s aggressive German Shepherd used to lunge and snap at me through the fence. One day, terrified, I yelled, “If you don’t shut up, your throat is going to rot!” The next morning, the dog lost its bark. It just laid in the dirt, panting and drooling, its vocal cords mysteriously paralyzed. When I was nine, my mom took me to the county fair. I begged her for a spun-sugar apple, but money was tight, and she said no. Furious, I muttered, “I hope this whole place burns down so nobody gets anything.” The following afternoon, an electrical fire swept through the fairgrounds. It incinerated everything. After that, I learned to keep my mouth shut. I was terrified. Terrified that the things I said, the dark little flares of anger we all feel, would physically destroy the people around me. But today, on that sweltering street, I just couldn’t hold it in. Those were my favorite jeans. 2 My phone buzzed against the nightstand early the next morning, pulling me out of a restless sleep. It was an unknown number. I rubbed my eyes and answered, my voice rough. “Hello?” “Is this Cassie?” It was a man’s voice. Low, smooth, and chillingly calm. “Yeah. Who is this?” “My name is Gideon Maxwell.” Gideon Maxwell? I dug through my foggy brain for a second before coming up entirely empty. “Do I know you?” I asked. “Yesterday afternoon. The intersection on Monroe Street. Your e-bike. My car.” Oh. The guy in the black sedan. “Right, you,” I said, playing dumb. “Did you get your tire fixed?” A heavy silence stretched over the line. “Cassie, I think we need to meet,” he said finally. “I don’t think so. I’m just a delivery driver. I don’t exactly run in the same circles as guys who drive cars that cost more than my life.” “My tire blew out precisely three seconds after you told it to.” His voice was devoid of emotion, which somehow made the hairs on my arms stand up. “Coincidence,” I lied smoothly. “City streets are a mess. Nails, glass. It happens.” “Does it?” he murmured. “Then let’s meet and discuss this ‘coincidence.’ Unless, of course, you aren’t interested in learning how a simple coincidence might result in a rather large compensation check for you.” Compensation? I sat up straight in bed. “What kind of compensation?” “Come meet me, and you’ll find out,” he said. “Noon today. The coffee shop at the bottom of your dispatch building.” He hung up before I could say another word. I sat there staring at the blank screen for a long time. Compensation? What was this? Hush money? My chest felt tight. I didn’t want anything to do with this man. The cardinal rule of my life was simple: the more I cared about someone, the closer I got to them, the more likely my mouth was to ruin them. But I was broke. Rent was due in three days, and my bike desperately needed a new battery if I wanted to keep my job. At noon, I walked into the coffee shop. It was quiet, the air conditioning blasting like a meat locker. Gideon was already there, sitting in a leather booth in the back. He was still wearing black, a cup of black coffee steaming untouched in front of him. He saw me, caught my eye, and offered a microscopic nod toward the empty chair across from him. I pulled it out and sat down. “Alright, talk,” I said, skipping the pleasantries. “What’s this about money?” He reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a thick, sealed envelope, and slid it across the table. “There’s five thousand dollars in there. To cover your dry cleaning, and the emotional distress of the incident,” he said smoothly. I stared at the envelope. I didn’t touch it. “Five grand? What kind of racket are you running?” I shot back, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. My jeans cost forty bucks at a thrift store. “How much do you want, Cassie?” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. His dark eyes locked onto mine. “I don’t want your money.” I pushed the envelope back. “Yesterday was a freak accident. If you think I’m bad luck, then do yourself a favor and stay away from me.” I grabbed my bag and started to stand. “Cassie,” he said. I stopped, but didn’t turn around. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said softly. “I know it wasn’t a coincidence.” My stomach plummeted. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “You’re a fascinating creature,” he mused, leaning back in his chair. “I rarely encounter things that genuinely surprise me. So, I want to play a game with you.” “What kind of game?” I turned back to look at him. “A test… to prove if you really are as ‘gifted’ as I think you are.” A slow, dangerous smile curved the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “If you win, I’ll write you a check for fifty thousand dollars. If you lose…” “What happens if I lose?” “If you lose, I give you a hundred thousand,” he said evenly. I stared at him. This man was utterly, completely unhinged. And heaven help me, so was I. Because a twisted, buried part of me was actually tempted. Not by the money. But by the simple, staggering fact that he wasn’t looking at me like I was a monster. He wasn’t afraid. He looked at me like he understood. “Fine,” I breathed. “Let’s play.” 3 The rules of Gideon’s game were brutally simple. He would select a target, and I would “jinx” it. If my words materialized, I won. The first target… was him. “Whenever you’re ready, Cassie. The stage is yours.” He leaned back against the leather booth, crossing his arms over his chest, looking entirely too amused. A slow, sultry saxophone track was playing softly through the café speakers. I studied him. He was undeniably gorgeous. Deep-set eyes, a sharp jawline, lips that were a fraction too thin, giving him a naturally arrogant look. It was the kind of face that belonged on a billboard, the kind that screamed untouchable. I cleared my throat. “I hope…” I dragged the words out, watching his reaction. He raised a single, dark brow, waiting. “…that the second you walk out that door, a pigeon takes a massive shit directly on your head.” I almost laughed as I said it. It felt so juvenile. Gideon’s arrogant mask slipped for a fraction of a second. “Is that the best you can do?” he asked, clearly disappointed. “What did you want me to say?” I threw my hands up. “That I hope you walk out and get hit by a bus? I’m not putting a murder charge on my conscience for your little experiment.” He stared at me for a long, heavy moment. Then, he stood up. “Alright. Let’s see which is stronger: your little parlor trick, or my luck.” He picked up his jacket and strode toward the exit. I didn’t move. I picked up his untouched coffee and took a sip. Bitter. Too strong. I watched through the massive front window as he pushed open the glass door. He took exactly one step onto the sunlit sidewalk. From the awning above, a thick, white splatter dropped straight down from the sky. It landed dead-center in his perfectly styled, dark hair. He froze. His entire body locked up like a statue. Somewhere in the café, a barista snorted, desperately trying to stifle a laugh. Moving with agonizing slowness, Gideon raised a hand, touched the top of his head, and looked at his fingers. His face went murderous. He pivoted on his heel and glared straight through the glass at me. If looks could kill, I would have been a pile of ash in the booth. I raised his coffee cup toward him, mouthing the word, Cheers. Then, I slammed the cup down, bolted from the booth, and slipped out the café’s back exit. I ran. I sprinted down the alleyway behind the building, the air thick with the smell of dumpsters and damp brick. I pressed my back against the wall of a dead-end alcove, gasping for air. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Half of it was the adrenaline of running. The other half was… the sheer, unadulterated thrill of it. For the first time in my miserable, guarded life, my cursed mouth had actually done something entirely hilarious. I was just starting to grin when a shadow fell over the mouth of the alley. It was Gideon. He was holding a wet wipe, methodically cleaning his hand as he stalked toward me. Instinctively, I scrambled backward, but my shoulder hit the rough brick. I was trapped. He stopped directly in front of me, planting a hand on the wall beside my head, caging me in. He was tall. Even standing straight up, the top of my head barely reached his collarbone. “Where are you running?” he asked. His voice was still cold, but there was a dark, gravelly edge to it now. “I… I have to get home to make dinner,” I stammered, my eyes darting everywhere but his face. “You’re very gifted, Cassie,” he murmured, tossing the soiled wet wipe into a nearby trash can without looking. “I do my best,” I whispered. He took a step closer. The remaining space between us vanished. I could smell him. Clean, sharp cedar, mixed with the faint, bitter tang of the coffee in his hair. It was intoxicating and terrifying all at once. “The fifty thousand is yours,” he said, looking down at me, a strange, feral heat flickering in his dark eyes. “But the game isn’t over.” “What… what else do you want?” My throat was so dry it ached. “I want to know where your limits are,” he said softly. “I want to see just how dark those words of yours can get.” He lowered his head. He was so close I could see the reflection of my own panicked face in his pupils. Small. Cornered. “Tell me, Cassie,” his voice dropped to a near-whisper, ghosting over my ear. “What would happen if I kissed you right now?” 4 The scent of cedar wrapped around me, pulling the oxygen right out of my lungs. My mind went completely blank. Static. He was too close. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, the faint brush of his breath against the shell of my ear. It made me shiver. I swallowed hard. “What would happen?” I echoed, forcing my voice to drop to the same dangerous pitch as his. “Your front tooth would fall right out of your skull.”

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The year the Montgomery family finally found me and brought me back from the mountains, I already knew the fundamental truth of the universe: the only way to stay alive was through absolute, unquestioning submission. Cathy, the girl who had taken my place as their daughter, pointed at the industrial ozone sterilization cabinet in the mudroom. She sneered, telling me to get inside and “disinfect” the stench of dirt off my skin. I didn’t argue. I crawled into the machine in silence and pressed the button. Scalding air instantly swallowed my body whole. By the time my biological parents smashed the glass door and dragged me out, my skin was blistering, red as raw meat. My older brother, Barry, just kicked the wall in disgust. “Always putting on a show. If you wanted to die, couldn’t you just swallow sleeping pills?” So, late that night, I swallowed an entire bottle of pills. Before my consciousness faded into the black, the last thing I remembered was his voice. On the cold hardwood floor, I heard his frantic, ragged breathing as he kicked my door in, and I felt the violent trembling of his fingers as he checked my pulse. Later, Cathy tripped and scraped her knee, crying hysterically. Barry grabbed me by the hair, his face twisted in rage. “If she scars, you’ll carve the flesh from your own body to pay for it!” The moment the shattered glass tore through my thigh, my mind drifted to the Appalachian woods. To the days when disobedience meant shattered bones. When my parents’ piercing screams finally broke through the haze, Barry frantically ripped the bloody shard of glass from my hand, his eyes wild. “I was just talking! I didn’t tell you to actually do it!” his voice shook violently. But they would never understand. Seven years in that hell had taught me one singular, inescapable lesson—children who do not listen do not survive. … 1 Blood welled up thickly, trailing down my thigh and soaking into the Persian rug, turning the intricate fibers a deep, sticky crimson. Blinding pain radiated from my leg, but I was intimately acquainted with pain. For seven years in the deep woods, pain had been my daily bread. I had endured agonies a thousand times worse than this. The hand Barry used to snatch the jagged shard of glass away from me was trembling uncontrollably. My mother threw herself onto the floor with a shriek, pressing her hands desperately against my wound. The blood surged, slipping easily between her manicured fingers. My father fumbled for his phone to dial 911, his hands shaking so badly the device clattered onto the hardwood. Barry turned on me, a feral roar ripping from his chest. “Are you insane?! I tell you to cut yourself, and you just do it?!” I looked up at him. My heartbeat was steady. My voice was calm. “Didn’t you tell me to do it, Brother?” As long as you listen, you won’t be beaten. That was the only law of survival I knew. I couldn’t be disobedient. Disobedience meant being tied to a tree and starved for three days. I pressed my palms against the blood-slicked floor, trying to reach for another piece of shattered glass. “That piece was too small,” I murmured matter-of-factly. “It might not be enough flesh to pay her back.” Barry kicked the coffee table over. Crystal glasses shattered into a million sparkling knives across the floor. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a terrifying panic. “Get away! Don’t touch that!” I immediately snapped my hands back to my sides. I dropped to my knees, lowering my upper body until my forehead rested firmly in the bloody glass shards scattered on the rug. “I will listen. Please don’t be angry, Brother.” A broken sob tore from my mother’s throat. She wrapped her arms around my stiff body, holding me tight. I didn’t dare move. I just let her hold me. The paramedics arrived in a flurry of noise and motion, hoisting me onto a stretcher. At the emergency room, the doctor prepared to stitch my leg. No anesthesia. Because right as the nurse went to fetch the lidocaine, Cathy came bursting into the trauma room, sobbing uncontrollably. She had a colorful Band-Aid on her knee where she had tripped and grazed her skin earlier. She threw herself into my mother’s arms, her voice trembling like a frightened bird. “Mom… does my sister hate me? She hurt herself on purpose in front of Barry just to make him mad at me.” Barry’s jaw clenched. He turned his harsh gaze toward me. “Maeve, do you really have to tear this family apart to get what you want?” I instantly held up a hand, stopping the nurse from prepping the syringe of numbing medication. “No anesthesia,” I said flatly. “I accept my punishment.” The doctor stood frozen, needle in hand. “Stitch it,” I ordered quietly. The sound of the curved needle puncturing my skin and dragging the heavy thread through my flesh was loud in the sterile room. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t even blink. Cathy hid behind my mother, covering her mouth in performative horror. My mother turned her face to the wall, unable to watch. Barry ran a hand aggressively through his hair. “What kind of tough-girl act is this? Nobody wants to punish you!” Once the wound was closed, the doctor recommended keeping me overnight for observation. My father left to fill out the admission paperwork. The hospital room emptied until it was just Barry and me. He sat heavily on the vinyl visitor’s sofa, lighting a cigarette despite the rules. “This whole martyrdom act isn’t going to work on me, Maeve,” he muttered through a cloud of smoke. “Cathy grew up sheltered. Can’t you just let her have her way for once?” I nodded slowly. “Okay. I will listen to whatever you say, Brother.” Barry crushed the cigarette into a paper cup, his eyes narrowing at me. “If you’re really going to listen, go apologize to Cathy.” I threw off the thin hospital blanket and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The sudden movement pulled at my fresh stitches. Blood immediately bloomed through the stark white gauze. I didn’t pause. Barefoot, I walked down the cold linoleum hallway to Cathy’s private room. 2 Cathy was lounging against her pillows, eating a beautifully peeled apple my mother had prepared. The moment she saw me standing in the doorway, she shrieked and shrank back against the headboard. My mother instantly threw herself between us like a human shield. “Maeve, what are you doing here?” I walked straight toward the bed. Without a word, I dropped rigidly to my knees. The impact of my kneecaps against the hard ceramic tile echoed off the walls with a sickening thud. “I am sorry.” I leaned forward and slammed my forehead into the floor. Then again. And again. The heavy, rhythmic sound of bone striking tile filled the room. “I shouldn’t have made my sister afraid. I shouldn’t have made my brother angry. I was wrong.” My mother grabbed my shoulders, her eyes wide with mounting horror. “Maeve, stop! What are you doing?!” I shoved her hands away and continued to strike my head against the floor. Back in the mountains, an apology wasn’t accepted unless you bled for it. If you weren’t sincere enough, you didn’t get to eat. Barry stormed into the room. He grabbed me by the collar of my hospital gown and hauled me to my feet. “Are you done?!” he roared. Blood was pouring down my forehead, stinging my eyes and turning the room into a hazy, crimson blur. I stretched my lips into a wide, hollow smile. “Is Brother satisfied?” Barry recoiled, dropping his grip on me as if I had burned him. He stumbled back two steps. Cathy’s wails intensified. “She’s just trying to guilt me to death! Fine, I’ll leave! Is that what you want?!” She dramatically ripped the IV out of the back of her hand and bolted for the door. My mother rushed out frantically after her. Once again, Barry and I were left alone. A nurse hurried in, taking one look at the scene before silently re-bandaging my bleeding forehead. She let out a heavy sigh and quickly slipped out. Terrified I would cause another scene, Barry discharged me early. When we returned to the sprawling Montgomery estate, my leg was still wrapped in thick, blood-spotted gauze. The house was a labyrinth of vaulted ceilings and marble floors—so vast that I constantly got lost in it. At dinner, the massive mahogany table was covered in a feast. I was seated at the very end, farthest from the family. In front of me sat a single, small bowl of plain smashed potatoes. This was my mother’s instruction. “You just got back from the hospital. Your stomach is weak. Eat something plain.” I picked up the bowl and ate quietly. At the other end of the table, Cathy picked up a piece of red lobster with her gold-tipped fork, placing it elegantly into her mouth. She looked at me, a faint, mocking smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Sister, why are you eating with your hands? Is that how you did it in the mountains? Like a little dog?” I paused. I looked down at my hand, curled awkwardly around the porcelain bowl. Then, I set the bowl down. I leaned my upper body over the table, lowered my face, and used my tongue to lap the smashed potatoes straight out of the dish. Smack. My father, Richard, slammed his palm against the table. The crystal glasses rattled violently. “This is unacceptable! You are completely humiliating the Montgomery family!” My mother went pale, a trembling finger pointing at me. “What… what are you doing… sit up!” Barry’s face was thunderous. He stood up and violently kicked the chair out from under me. “Get out! Get out of my sight!” I obediently stood up from the floor and silently backed out of the dining room. Just as I reached the archway, Barry’s voice cut through the air like a whip. “Don’t go to your room. Go stay in the dog kennel out back and reflect on what you’ve done.” I gave a single, curt nod to show I understood. It rained that night. I pulled my knees to my chest, curling into a tight ball inside the freezing stone dog kennel. Cold water dripped through the cracks in the roof, matting my hair to my face. I didn’t dare close my eyes. They hadn’t told me I was allowed to sleep yet. 3 The estate manager found me the next morning. I was burning with a dangerously high fever, my skin radiating heat. The concierge doctor was called in to administer a fever-reducing injection. I lay in the massive canopy bed, drifting in and out of a heavy, suffocating haze. Through the fog, I heard Cathy’s sickeningly sweet voice. “Dad, Mom, my sister didn’t do it on purpose. She’s just used to living like an animal in the woods. Please don’t be mad at her.” My mother sighed heavily. “It’s a tragedy. If I had known she would come back like this, I’d rather…” She didn’t finish the sentence, but I understood the implication perfectly. My father scoffed coldly. “She’s playing dumb to get sympathy. She brings nothing but bad luck into this house.” Barry’s voice dripped with irritation. “She’s crawling with germs. Don’t let her touch anything in the house, especially not Cathy’s things.” “Take all the clothes she was wearing and burn them. God knows what diseases she’s carrying.” I opened my eyes. Barry was standing beside my bed. When he saw I was awake, the disgust in his eyes deepened. “If you’re awake, get up. Stop playing dead.” I immediately sat up. “Take off those clothes. We’re burning them.” I reached for the buttons of my pajama top and methodically began undoing them. Barry’s brow furrowed. “What are you doing? Taking them off right here?” I froze, looking up at him in confusion. “Get in the bathroom!” I nodded, walked into the en-suite bathroom, stripped naked, and walked back out, clutching the pajamas to my chest. “Brother, should I go burn them now?” Barry stared at my naked, bruised body, his face flushing crimson before draining of color entirely. He grabbed the heavy down comforter off the bed and hurled it over me, burying me in its weight. “Put it on!” I stood there, clutching the duvet, genuinely at a loss. He had just told me to burn my clothes. Now he was telling me to put the blanket on. Which order was I supposed to follow? Seeing my hesitation, Barry exploded. “I told you to put it on! Can’t you understand basic English?!” He lunged forward, roughly wrapping the comforter around my shoulders, shoving me backward until I fell onto the mattress. “Do you just love getting naked for people to see? Did you learn that from the savages in the mountains?” His words were vicious. But I was used to it. Where I came from, I heard things a hundred times worse, every single day. I just watched him quietly, waiting for his next command. My passivity seemed to fuel his rage. He pointed sharply at the glass doors leading to the balcony. “If you love taking orders so much, why don’t you go jump out that window?” My bedroom was on the third floor. I looked at the balcony, then back at him. I nodded. “Okay.” I let the comforter drop. I stood up and walked steadily toward the glass doors. It wasn’t until I actually hoisted myself over the railing that Barry realized what was happening. He sprinted forward, lunging over the threshold and yanking me back violently by my arm. The force was so brutal that I flew backward, the back of my skull cracking sickeningly against the hardwood floor. My vision whited out. “You’re insane! You’re a literal psychopath!” he screamed, his chest heaving as he stood over me. I brought a hand up to cradle the back of my head. A large, throbbing lump was already swelling beneath my hair. It hurt. A lot. But I didn’t cry. They didn’t like it when I cried. In the mountains, they said my crying sounded ugly and brought bad luck. Barry’s screaming drew my parents and Cathy down the hall. They rushed in, stopping dead in their tracks at the chaos. Cathy was the first to react. She threw herself at Barry, her face a mask of perfectly curated concern. “Barry, what happened? Did she make you mad again?” My mother looked down at me, her eyes heavy with an exhaustion that bordered on grief. “Maeve, when is this going to end? What did this family do in a past life to deserve this…?” My name is Maeve. A name I hadn’t heard in seven years. Barry pointed a shaking finger at me. “She just tried to jump off the balcony! I made a sarcastic comment, and she actually tried to do it!” My father’s face turned ashen with fury. “This is utter madness! Lock her in this room. No one lets her out without my explicit permission!” And so, I was locked away. Three times a day, a maid slid a tray of food through the small gap at the bottom of the heavy double doors. I didn’t mind. I had food. I had water. I wasn’t being beaten. To me, this room was paradise. 4 Two days later, the lock clicked. The door swung open. It was Cathy. She wore a pristine, designer silk dress, delicately carrying a steaming bowl of soup on a tray. “Sister, I had the kitchen make you some chicken soup to help you recover.” She set the bowl on the nightstand, her lips curved into a sweet, poisonous smile. “Drink it. While it’s hot.” I walked over, picked up the bowl, and drank it all in one long, unbroken gulp. It was boiling. I felt the skin of my tongue and esophagus blistering instantly, but I didn’t stop. Because she had told me to drink it while it was hot. When I finished, I held the empty bowl out to her. Cathy’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before snapping back into place. “Wow, Sister. You’re so brave.” She took the bowl, running her fingers lightly over the rim. “You know, this is Mom’s favorite bowl. Custom Limoges porcelain imported from France. It costs thousands of dollars.” She twirled the bowl in her hands. Then, suddenly, her fingers slipped. Crash. The delicate porcelain shattered into dozens of jagged pieces across the floor. Cathy let out a short, dramatic gasp. Tears instantly welled in her eyes. Right on cue, the door opened, and Barry walked in. Cathy immediately threw herself at him, sobbing. “Barry, I didn’t mean to… the bowl slipped…” She crouched down to pick up the pieces, deliberately letting a sharp edge graze her finger. A single drop of bright red blood welled up. “It hurts…” she whimpered, holding her finger up pitifully for him to see. Barry roughly shoved me out of the way, dropping to his knees to inspect her hand. “You again! Can’t you let Cathy have one single day of peace?!” he snarled over his shoulder at me. I understood what he meant. I had broken the bowl. I had hurt her. I needed to apologize. I dropped to my knees, picked up the largest, sharpest piece of porcelain, and placed it in my mouth. Crunch. The sickening sound of grinding ceramic echoed in the dead-silent room. The metallic, rusted taste of blood instantly flooded my mouth. The color drained entirely from Cathy’s face. Barry froze. He stared at me, the anger in his expression melting into a look of profound, visceral horror. “What the hell are you doing?! Who are you performing for?! You make me sick!” I ignored him. I just kept chewing mechanically. This was how I was taught to say sorry. To use the most direct, undeniable agony to prove that I knew my place. Footsteps rushed down the hall. Cathy, sensing her audience, burst into hysterical tears. “Dad! Mom! My sister… she’s eating the glass…” My parents burst through the door, stopping dead at the sight of my blood-stained teeth and chin. My mother let out a blood-curdling scream and collapsed into a dead faint. My father caught her, pointing at me with a hand that shook violently, unable to form a single word. Barry was the only one who moved. He lunged at me, grabbing my jaw with both hands, trying to pry my mouth open to fish the shards out. “Spit it out! Spit it out right now!” His grip was agonizing, bruising my jawbone. But I didn’t spit it out. Because an apology had to be sincere. Eventually, I was forcibly dragged into the back of an ambulance and rushed to the hospital to have my stomach pumped. The surgeon extracted over a dozen pieces of sharp porcelain from my stomach. Several had severely lacerated my esophagus and stomach lining. I found myself back in a hospital bed, tubes snaking out of my arms and nose. The Montgomery family remained in the hallway. I was alone in the quiet, sterile room. Through the crack in the door, I could hear them arguing. “She’s a monster! A literal psychopath!” That was Barry. “It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have brought that bowl in there…” Cathy wept. “Oh, sweetie, it’s not your fault. There is something fundamentally wrong with her,” my mother consoled. “We need to find a psychiatric facility. Lock her up. If we don’t, she’s going to drag this entire family down with her!” my father finalized. Late that night, Barry crept into my room alone. He sat in the plastic chair beside my bed, staring at me in silence. He looked at me for a very long time. So long, I thought he might just sit there until dawn. Finally, he spoke. His voice was incredibly raw. “Why?” I looked at him, not understanding. “Why are you doing this? Is torturing us fun for you?” I shook my head slightly. “Then why?!” he suddenly exploded, his voice cracking with unchecked emotion. “Do you have any idea that Mom almost had a heart attack because of you?! Cathy hasn’t eaten all day because she’s so worried about you!” I lowered my eyes. “I’m sorry.” “Always ‘I’m sorry’!” he yelled, pacing like a caged animal. “Is that the only damn thing you know how to say?!” He grabbed the plastic water pitcher off my tray table and hurled it violently against the wall. “Maeve, do you think we owe you something? You didn’t come back to this family to heal. You came back to destroy us, didn’t you?” I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t know what to say. My silence was the final match to his powder keg. “Fine. You want to play games? Let’s play.” “You love following orders so much, right?” He pointed to the window. This hospital suite was on the fourth floor. “If you’ve got the guts, jump out that window.” “If you actually jump, I’ll believe you aren’t faking this.” “I’ll believe that this family actually owes you something.” He turned on his heel and slammed the heavy door behind him. I stared at the window. I looked at it for a long, quiet moment. Then, I slowly pushed myself upright. I slipped my feet into the hospital grips, walked over to the pane, and unlatched it. The night wind was fierce. I climbed onto the ledge, spread my arms wide, closed my eyes, and fell backward into the dark. Brother, I listened to you. I hope this time, you believe me.

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When my husband, Denis Pierce—an S-Tier shifter and the most lethal man in the Coalition—woke up from his coma with severe amnesia, there was absolutely no room left for me in his new world. While he was lying in the VIP trauma ward, he refused all visitors. Yet, the absolute second he was discharged, he sent me a message. There was no How have you been? or I miss you. Just a cold, sterile digital document: a divorce agreement. “Ms. Sullivan,” the text in the chat bubble read, sharp and freezing as cracked ice. “Our past marriage is clearly the byproduct of my compromised mental state at the time. Let’s process the paperwork as soon as possible.” Staring at the glowing screen, a laugh actually bubbled up in my throat. Sure, having an apex predator shifter for a partner meant you were fiercely protected, but who could actually survive his relentless, borderline-feral demands every single night? Honestly, the fact that his amnesia led him to initiate the breakup felt like a literal godsend. A divorce agreement? Sign it. Sign it right now. Once I was officially single again, I was going to find myself a gentle, soft-spoken partner. Never again would I tie myself to a terrifying beast with a terrifying amount of stamina. 1 “Understood.” Looking at the harsh text, I typed my reply without a single ounce of hesitation. The man on the other end of the screen seemed to exhale a digital sigh of relief. “Excellent, Ms. Sullivan.” “Thank you for your cooperation. All marital assets will be transferred entirely to your name. Should you encounter any logistical issues, you can contact my assistant at any time.” Me: “Sounds good.” “Thank you for agreeing to the divorce. Someone will be in touch shortly.” Me: “Great.” Closing the chat, I practically threw myself onto the plush mattress, humming happily. I pulled out the sleek black bank card linked to Denis’s military salary and opened the banking app. Tens, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands… Behind the first five digits, there were four more zeros. I couldn’t suppress the giddy, ear-to-ear grin spreading across my face. “Heh. Hehehe.” I was rich. No matter how I spun it, I had hit the absolute jackpot. As the most elite S-Tier shifter in the entire Coalition, Denis had become the youngest General in the Armed Forces shortly after his graduation. His compensation package was astronomical. In our three years of marriage, he had not only bought me a sprawling coastal estate, but he had also filled a massive walk-in closet with designer bags. And yet, there was still this much liquid cash left over. I rolled around on the high-thread-count sheets, my mind racing with all the delicious ways I could spend this money. First, I’d sell the estate and the bags. Once I had the cash, I’d move to some quiet, picturesque colony world, find myself a sweet, handsome rabbit shifter, or maybe a domesticated cat shifter, and live out the rest of my days in absolute, unbothered comfort. Just thinking about it made my chest feel light. I was right in the middle of scrolling through real estate listings on a gorgeous little ocean planet when my phone suddenly buzzed. It was Benjie. His voice on the other end of the line sounded thoroughly defeated. “…Ma’am.” “The General’s brain is completely broken. You’re not actually going to divorce him, are you?” 2 Benjie was Denis’s executive assistant. He was also a deeply traditional shifter—a Golden Retriever mix, to be exact. He held the firm belief that high-level shifters belonged with other high-level shifters. Someone of Denis’s unparalleled S-Tier pedigree, in Benjie’s eyes, should have been politically matched with a flawless, old-money shifter bloodline. When Denis fell in love with me at first sight, Benjie had a meltdown. When we actually got married, Benjie had a second meltdown. And now that Denis and I were getting a divorce? For some reason, it sounded like Benjie was on the verge of his third. I picked at a loose thread on my blanket and softly reminded him, “It’s not that I want to divorce him, Benjie. It was Denis’s idea.” Benjie sounded like he was physically shattering. “But Ma’am, his brain is broken! He’s—he’s got brain damage!” “Before the wedding, I helped him pick out the flowers, the cars, the designer bags. During the wedding, I stood between you two and those stubborn, traditionalist elders to make sure your ceremony was flawless. After the wedding, I spent every single day talking to the General about life, the universe, and how to make you happy… I practically became the president of your fan club! And now you’re telling me you’re getting a divorce?!” “What was the point of sacrificing my youth for you two?!” he wailed. “What was it all for?!” Me: “…” Even my conscience twinged a little at that. I rubbed my lower stomach, suddenly feeling a bit guilty, and stammered, “Well, I mean…” Benjie caught the hesitation and his tone sparked with sudden hope. “Ma’am, you still love him deeply, don’t you? You don’t actually want to leave him, right? Don’t worry, leave everything to me. I promise you, give me one month, and I’ll have the General’s memories fully restored!” Me: “…” One month. Wasn’t that a little too soon? During the entire time Denis had been in his coma, the faint, bruised-looking marks on my skin had only just started to fade. Even now, my thighs ached a little when I walked too fast. Benjie was still aggressively pitching his plan. “Just one month, and you two will be as sickeningly sweet as you used to be. Just hold on a little longer, Ma’am. Think about all the beautiful moments you shared. Do you really have the heart to just walk away from him like this?” I kept my hand resting on my stomach. Suddenly, a vivid memory flashed behind my eyes. Denis’s large, calloused hands gripping my waist, pinning me down. The low, rumbling vibration of his chest as he laughed against my ear, his voice a dark, breathless whisper: [Such a good girl for me.] A full-body shiver wrecked through me. I sat bolt upright, my resolve instantly hardening. “Forget it, Benjie.” “You can’t force something that isn’t meant to be. If Denis wants to divorce me, I’m sure it’s a carefully considered decision. Please schedule the appointment as soon as possible. I’m going to go sign those papers!” Benjie: “…?” 3 I didn’t wait to hear whatever Benjie was going to say next. I hung up the phone. Denis and I had met through the Federal Genetic Registry. Rumor had it that Denis used to be violently opposed to the idea of marriage. But because his genetic markers were so flawlessly elite, the Registry hounded him relentlessly. After being badgered for the hundredth time, the man finally snapped. He wrote down an impossibly specific, entirely ridiculous list of demands and threw it at the Registry directors, threatening to dismantle their entire building if they couldn’t find someone who fit the exact criteria. Terrified, the Registry fed his impossible parameters into the Holo-Net matrix. And matched with me. In exactly one second. On the day of our forced blind date, Denis looked like he was ready to murder someone. But the moment his eyes landed on me… Denis: “Hi, wife.” Me: “?” And just like that, I was married. At first, I thought I had won the lottery. But barely two days into the marriage, the regret set in. …Because Denis was, quite frankly, terrifying. And incredibly wicked. On the nights he came home from the base, even if I was crying and trying to crawl to the edge of the mattress, he would just effortlessly drag me back by the ankles. He would cage me in his massive arms, kissing away my tears while wickedly teasing me for being so soft. It never stopped until I literally passed out. … I bit my lower lip and started reviewing the divorce checklist. Benjie sent me several crying-face emojis. Then, radio silence. Honestly, I trusted Benjie’s professional competence entirely. Even though he was a loyal little Golden Retriever shifter, when Denis had decided he wanted to marry me, Benjie had handled the resulting political nightmare perfectly, even while having a mental breakdown. Now that Denis wanted to divorce me, I was sure Benjie would execute it flawlessly. Sure enough, after a period of quiet, Benjie dutifully sent me the time and location. Three days from now. 2:00 PM. The Civic Records Bureau. Me: “Received.” Now that the dust had settled, my heart calmed down slightly. But thinking of Denis—injured and missing his memories—a quiet pang of worry surfaced. The details of Denis’s injuries were highly classified. The Coalition had placed a strict embargo on the information, so I hadn’t seen a single media report about it. While he was in the trauma ward, he had explicitly banned me from visiting. So even now, as he was discharged, I had no idea what kind of damage he had sustained, or how severe it had been. After hesitating for a long moment, I finally typed: “How is Denis… doing right now?” Benjie replied instantly: “WAHHHHHHH!” “MA’AM!!!” “I knew it! I knew you still loved the General! (Loud Crying Emoji)” I winced. Let’s not talk about love. We were literally getting divorced; what was the point of romanticizing it now? But Benjie wasn’t deterred by my lack of enthusiasm. He enthusiastically bombarded me with text walls, including a recent photo of Denis. In the picture, the man’s expression was an icy mask, his sharply sculpted face noticeably pale. Benjie: “Ma’am, the General was hurt really badly this time. Otherwise, his brain wouldn’t have locked away his memories of you.” “His external wounds are mostly healed, but his core is still dangerously weak. The med-techs told him to rest for at least three months, but he refuses to listen. He’s demanding to be cleared for active duty.” “When you see him, please try to talk some sense into him. (Puppy Wagging Tail Emoji)” I tapped on the photograph, enlarging it. Looking at the familiar, sharp line of his brow, now shadowed by a sickly pallor, an unnamable ache settled in my chest. I didn’t know what right I had to advise him anymore. But I agreed to Benjie’s request anyway. …Even setting aside the fact that he was my husband, Denis was still a decorated hero of the Coalition. Both personally and objectively, I owed it to him to tell him to take care of himself. The three days blurred by quickly. Thinking that this might be the very last time we ever saw each other, I spent over an hour doing my makeup, pulling on a sharp, professional tailored skirt suit, wanting to treat this final transition with the gravity it deserved. But right before I walked out the door, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. A dark memory suddenly spiked in my brain. A man pressing my chest against the cold glass of this exact mirror. His voice, hoarse and heavy with lust: [Dressed up so beautifully for me, baby? Who are you trying to impress?] [Oh… you just wanted to look pretty for your husband.] [Such a good girl.] I violently shuddered, shaking my head to clear the phantom sensation. I immediately marched into the bathroom, scrubbed my face completely bare, and threw on a simple, unassuming white sundress. I checked the mirror again. Bare-faced, looking like I had literally just rolled out of bed and thrown on the first piece of fabric I could find. Thoroughly unbothered. Perfect. Satisfied, I grabbed the finalized divorce folders and walked out the door. 4 Because of my last-minute wardrobe crisis, I was running slightly late. To give us time to review the paperwork before going inside, Benjie had booked a table for us at an upscale coffee shop right across the street from the Civic Records Bureau. The moment I stepped through the cafe doors, a visceral chill ran down my spine. Even suppressed, the ambient pressure of an S-Tier shifter was completely suffocating. It felt like being locked in the crosshairs of a terrifying, apex predator lurking in the dark. A primal, hair-raising dread. The other patrons in the cafe were visibly tense. Some of the lower-level shifters were so overwhelmed that their traits were slipping out—I saw a girl with long white rabbit ears flattened in sheer terror against her head, trembling in a corner booth. Shifters of Denis’s caliber almost never walked around casually in public. His aura was simply too crushing. Even when he wasn’t doing anything, it bore down on weaker shifters like gravity. It was like putting a locked-up lion in a room full of toy poodles; the cage didn’t stop the poodles’ legs from giving out. Add to that the fact that he hadn’t fully healed… there was a distinct, metallic undercurrent of blood in his scent that made it even more terrifying. I quickened my pace, hurrying toward the secluded corner. Stopping by the table next to the window, I said softly, “Mr. Pierce.” Denis was sitting by the glass. He wore a simple, unbuttoned dress shirt, his dark military jacket tossed carelessly over the back of the plush sofa. He was leaning back lazily, looking incredibly bored as he tapped at his smart-watch interface. At the sound of my voice, his icy eyes flicked up. “Ms. Sullivan. Punctuality is a virtue you seem to lack—” The absolute second his eyes fully registered me, his entire body seemed to jolt. He slowly, rigidly sat up straight. “…W—Wife?” 5 I looked down, feeling a sudden rush of guilt, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I ran a little late.” Denis’s breathing actually hitched. His eyes completely lost their focus for a second. “…I—It’s fine.” “I was just early.” I slid into the booth across from him, pulled the meticulously drafted divorce agreement from my tote bag, and slid it across the sleek wooden table. “Husban—I mean, Mr. Pierce.” “This is the agreement my lawyers drafted. Could you review it and let me know if there’s anything you want amended?” The moment the words left my mouth, I closed my eyes in pure agony. My toes curled inside my shoes, desperate to dig a hole straight through the floorboards. …God, that was so humiliating. Husband? The man had literal amnesia. He didn’t want to see me, the first thing he asked for was a divorce, and I had just called him husband. After a brutal internal war with my own embarrassment, I slowly realized the air between us had gone dead silent. I cautiously opened my eyes and peeked across the table. Denis suddenly looked incredibly busy. His lips were pressed in a tight line, his fingers flying across his smart-watch as if he were negotiating a national security crisis. But out of the corner of his eye, he kept throwing erratic, panicked glances at the divorce papers on the table. Me: “…Mr. Pierce?” It took him a half-beat to respond. He looked up, his pupils still slightly dilated. “…Ms. Sullivan.” I offered an awkward smile. “Um, are you busy with work right now? We can go process the paperwork quickly so you can get back to it.” “Or… are you unhappy with the terms? It’s totally fine, we can just split the marital assets fifty-fifty.” Denis: “…” All the color drained from Denis’s already pale face. His large, scarred knuckles clenched, then released, then clenched again over his knees. “I…” he grit his teeth. “Actually…” I blinked, watching him with genuine concern. Something was wrong with him. He looked like he was about to pass out. I wasn’t sure if his injuries were acting up. Remembering Benjie’s desperate plea, I softened my voice. “Mr. Pierce, I know your work is important, but you really need to take care of your body.” “Otherwise, the people who care about you are going to worry.” A sudden, intense light flickered in Denis’s eyes. “Really? There’s someone… who worries about me?” What a ridiculous question. Did Benjie not count as a person? I nodded earnestly. “Yes, of course. So please, prioritize your health.” “Now, should we head over and get our certificates?” Denis shot to his feet so fast the table rattled. His face was ashen. “…I apologize, Ms. Sullivan. The Coalition just flagged an emergency. I have to leave.” I looked up in shock. “Wait, right now? We can just go inside, it will literally take ten minutes—” Denis choked out another panicked apology, spun on his heel, and practically sprinted out the door. He walked so fast it looked like the hounds of hell were snapping at his ankles. Me: “…” Well, what was I supposed to do now? I had actually lined up a blind date with a cat shifter for this exact afternoon. For the sake of my beautiful, peaceful future, I planned to line up several potential gentle shifters, vet them all, and pick the sweetest one. The plan was to get the divorce certificate, then seamlessly pivot to the date. Peak efficiency. But now… I didn’t have the divorce papers signed. Was it morally wrong to still go on the date? Would that make me a bad person? 6 Ultimately, I still went to meet the cat shifter. It wasn’t because I was desperate. It was mostly because the guy had sent me a video message right before I left the house. Soft, messy black hair, framing a pair of pristine, fluffy white cat ears that twitched nervously. His voice was soft, sweet, and incredibly endearing. “These are my ears, miss.” “I don’t know if they’re the kind of ears you like… but I really hope they are. >_<" My resolve instantly crumbled. "Oh my god, you are the sweetest baby! I love them!" [Location Pin Sent] "Sweetie, I'm already here. Come meet me, coffee is on me~" While waiting for him to arrive, a small voice in the back of my head whispered: Is it really appropriate to have a date in the exact same spot you were just sitting with your husband? But Toby was already on his way. Changing the venue at the very last second on our first date would make me look like a chaotic, red-flag player. While I was still debating, he walked in. I had seen his shifter profile—a long-haired Ragdoll—but in person, he was even cuter than I imagined. He was a bit on the shorter side, but his face was perfectly cherubic, his eyes round and sparkling. Objectively, a textbook pretty-boy feline. He walked over hesitantly, his fluffy ears flattening slightly as he sat down. His nose crinkled. "Miss... who was sitting here before me? The scent is making me a little nauseous." I coughed, suddenly feeling incredibly guilty. "Uh... my husband—I mean, my ex-husband. We were supposed to finalize our divorce today. But he got called away on an emergency, so you don't need to worry about him." Toby nodded timidly, his big, watery eyes looking up at me with absolute adoration. "I see... Well, I'm here to keep you company." "If you're feeling sad about anything, you can tell me. I'll always be here to listen." I was melting. I was absolutely melting. After a few minutes of chatting, I managed to coax him into shifting his hands so I could play with his soft, pink toe beans. We were having a great time until suddenly, the fur on Toby's arms puffed out. His nose flared. "Wait. Miss, something's wrong. I feel... danger." "It's really close. Like... someone is watching us." I was entirely too invested in squishing the pink toe beans to look up. "Danger? You mean my ex? He got called away by Military Command. There's zero chance he'd come back." Toby's voice cracked, dropping an octave in sheer panic. "...No, miss. Look. Is that... is that your ex-husband?" I snapped my head up. Right outside the cafe window, separated only by a sheet of glass, stood a towering, broad-shouldered man. I had no idea how long he had been standing there. His dark, suffocating gaze was locked entirely on me, like a beast of prey stalking from the shadows. Through the glass, his lips moved, silently shaping the words: [Wife.] [Who is he?]

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “419175”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The “Golden Boy”—the one my wife always considered the great, lost love of her life—finally came back from abroad. Zavier was a classic predator, the kind of man who thrived on blurred lines and unspoken provocations. He had this infuriating habit of testing boundaries with my wife, Monica, and her tight-knit circle of friends. For a long time, I kept my temper on a short leash, swallowed my pride, and looked the other way. Until the day he pulled Monica flush against his chest. Reeking of expensive bourbon and unearned confidence, he claimed he was just “testing” the strength of their lifelong bond. “Come on, Monica,” he whispered, loud enough for me to hear. “We literally bathed together as toddlers. It’s been years. You’re telling me I can’t even get a hug?” I watched as Monica’s face flushed a deep, betraying crimson. She looked at him with a mixture of shyness and adoration that made my blood run cold. I started to lift my hand, ready to trigger the “Heartthrob System”—a supernatural edge I’d kept buried and dormant for seven long years. But the reboot sequence was agonizingly slow. As Zavier’s hands began to wander lower, venturing past the point of no return, my five-year-old son, Jamie, walked out from the hallway. He looked at me with an intensity no child his age should possess. “Dad,” he said, his voice steady. “Let me handle this.” He paused, his eyes flicking to Zavier with pure disdain. “I’ve read this story before.” 01. Zavier still had his arms wrapped around Monica. Sensing my simmering rage, he began to toy with a strand of Monica’s hair, twirling it around his finger like he owned her. “Don’t get all worked up, Ben,” he said, flashing a shark-like grin. “Monica and I are family. We grew up together. Honestly, I’ve seen her in her birthday suit more times than I can count.” Monica reacted faster than I could. “Zavier, stop! Ben, honey, don’t listen to him. That was when we were kids. He hasn’t seen me like that in forever.” She said the words, but she didn’t pull away. Seeing her hesitation, Zavier pushed harder. “Oh, you forgot? That night in college when you got trashed and I had to carry you home? I was the one who got you out of those clothes and into bed.” He tapped his lips, feigning a clumsy apology. “Oops. My bad, Ben. Don’t take it personally. It was an emergency. Besides, I’ve been seeing her change since middle school. Looking at her is like looking at one of the guys. Totally platonic.” Monica reached up to playfully cover his mouth, their bodies tangling even closer. In that moment, in my own home, I felt like a ghost. An outsider. I reached my breaking point. I closed my eyes and whispered in the silence of my mind. System? Are you there? A mechanical ping echoed in my skull. [Status: Online.] Reboot, I commanded. Now. Seven years. I never thought I’d need it again. I suppose the “seven-year itch” is real, and even a man with my natural charms couldn’t compete with the ghost of a first love. I waited, my jaw tight. The progress bar crawled: [1%]. It wouldn’t be ready in time to stop this. I’d have to use my own hands to teach this man a lesson in respect. Zavier, sensing the shift in the air, shifted his weight, pulling Monica into an even more suggestive angle. Suddenly, Jamie stepped in front of me. He pressed a small hand against my knee. “Dad,” he whispered, so low only I could hear. “Let me.” He looked back at me, his little mouth forming the words silently: I’ve read the original manuscript. Before I could process what he meant, he let out a piercing shriek. “AHHH! COCKROACH! BIG COCKROACH!” He hurled a small, brown, sticky-looking object directly at Zavier. Zavier might have acted like a tough guy, but he was a coward at heart. He shrieked, dodging frantically. He tripped over his own feet and slammed into the floor, the “cockroach” pinned squarely beneath his designer jeans. He felt something squelchy and let out a sound of pure disgust. “Monica! Control your kid!” he barked, scrambling up. “What kind of brat plays with bugs? I think I’ve actually scraped my skin!” He grabbed Monica’s arm, pulling her toward him. “You need to help me up. Take me to the ER. And you’re paying for the medical bill!” Monica’s maternal instinct misfired. She turned to scold Jamie, her face tight with embarrassment. I stepped forward, shielding my son. “The only person allowed to discipline my son is me.” Monica balked, but Zavier wouldn’t let it go. “Ben, I get that you love the kid, but this is ridiculous. I’m bleeding. He needs to be taught a lesson. Spare the rod, spoil the child.” Monica nodded, her voice sharp. “He’s right, Ben. Jamie is getting out of hand.” I sneered, ready to let him have it, but Jamie was faster. He darted toward Zavier and, before anyone could react, yanked Zavier’s waistband down, exposing his thighs. Jamie pointed a finger. “Liar! There’s no blood!” Then he looked up at Monica, his eyes wide and innocent. “Mommy, Daddy hates it when you touch dirty men.” 02. The innocence of a child’s words can be the sharpest blade. Monica’s face went pale, then mottled with a dark, ugly rage. Under the watchful, judging eye of her “Golden Boy,” she made a choice. She swung her hand. Slap. “Enough!” she screamed. I wasn’t fast enough. Jamie tumbled to the ground. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” I pushed Monica back, kneeling to scoop Jamie into my arms. Monica turned her face away, refusing to look at us. Zavier, ever the opportunist, chimed in. “Ben, don’t blame her. The kid needs boundaries. If you won’t set them, someone has to.” Monica echoed him, her voice cold. “Jamie needs to learn what he can and cannot say. Forget it. I’m taking Zavier to the hospital. You stay here and deal with your son.” She didn’t want a confrontation. She practically ran out the door, hovering over Zavier like a devoted nurse. Within seconds, the courtyard was silent, leaving just me and my boy. I checked his face. His cheek was already beginning to swell. “I’m so sorry, Jamie,” I whispered, the guilt gnawing at my gut. I hated myself for not activating the System the moment Zavier showed his face. “This is on me.” Jamie shook his head. He leaned into my ear. “Dad, remember what I told you? I know how this ends. I know the ‘original plot’.” He looked at me with a chillingly calm expression. “I did that on purpose. If I hadn’t, she would have hit you.” On the way to the pediatric clinic, Jamie laid it all out. In the “original story,” Zavier comes back after blowing his fortune abroad. His goal is to seduce four of his former female classmates, drain their assets, and leave their families in ruins. Jamie was determined to save me because, out of all the women, Zavier “loved” Monica the most—which meant he was the most ruthless toward me. In the original ending, Zavier drives me to jump off a bridge. “I love you, Dad. And I love Mom. I don’t want either of you to get hurt.” He hugged me tight, promising he would drive Zavier away and protect our family. I patted his head in silence. I decided I would talk to Monica one last time tonight. I waited until midnight. She didn’t come home. Instead, I saw Zavier’s latest post on Instagram. Zavier_Official: Real friendship is having someone hand-feed you your favorite skewers when you’re ‘injured.’ The photo showed Monica leaning over him, a sweet, complicit smile on her face. I hit “Like.” Seconds later, another post popped up. Zavier_Official: As a reward, I have to make sure my ‘best friend’ is full, too. The photo was a blurry, intimate shot of him looming over Monica. Her face was flushed with a post-coital glow. He sent it specifically for me to see. My wife was already gone. Jamie leaned over to look, but I covered his eyes with one hand. “Time for bed, kiddo.” [System Reboot Progress: 35%] Monica didn’t slink through the door until the next morning. She had a fresh, vivid hickey on her neck. I was sitting on the sofa, waiting. I didn’t waste time. “What’s that on your neck?” Without Zavier there to perform for, Monica reverted to her “loving wife” persona. She covered the mark with her hand. “A mosquito bite.” “That’s a hell of a mosquito.” She gave a forced, sheepish laugh and knelt at my feet. “Ben, don’t be like that. Look, I went all the way to that bakery downtown to get your favorite cake. Let’s just be happy. Yesterday… Jamie really crossed a line.” “My son did nothing wrong.” Monica’s expression hardened, but before she could start an argument, I spoke calmly. “Go take a shower.” I told her to scrub herself ten times. I made it sound like a request, but it was an order. While she was in the bathroom, I followed Jamie’s advice and checked her phone. Sure enough, I found a group chat titled: “Zavier’s Harem.” It was brand new. The first message was from Zavier. Zavier: @Everyone, since I’m an ‘invalid,’ I’m going to the mountain spa tomorrow! You’re all coming with me. No excuses for a sick man. Monica’s best friends were already tripping over themselves to reply. Only Monica hadn’t answered yet. I opened her camera, took a photo of my own physique—the six-pack I’d worked years to maintain—and posted it to the group from her account while sitting on the edge of our bed. Monica: Sorry guys, I’m staying in to take care of my husband. Have fun. The chat exploded. Monica’s friends didn’t hold back. “Monica, you lucky girl.” “Ben is still the hottest man I’ve ever seen.” “Must be nice to have a real man at home.” It was a direct hit. I didn’t expect Zavier to be so brazen, though. Zavier: Monica, you’re choosing your husband over your ‘brother’? Anything he can give you, I can give you better. Or has it been seven years too long? Have you forgotten what I taste like? Then, Zavier posted a photo of himself in nothing but underwear. Zavier: Since you ladies are acting like you’ve never seen a man before… Monica, did you forget? Have the rest of you? I think we really need to get together and ‘reminisce.’ The women in the chat practically swooned through their keyboards. It was sickening. Then, Zavier sent a private DM to Monica’s phone. “Ben, even if you’re not willing, you should ask Monica what she wants.” I gripped the phone until my knuckles turned white. I blocked him. [System Reboot Progress: 65%] 03. I expected Zavier to be the one to lash out. I didn’t expect it to be Monica. She threw her phone against the wall with such force it shattered. A piece of glass sliced my cheek, drawing blood, but she didn’t even blink. “Ben! Who gave you the right to touch my phone?!” She raised her hand as if to strike me, but Jamie scrambled out of his room and threw himself in front of me. “Mom, don’t! Don’t hurt Daddy!” I pulled Jamie back and looked at her with pure coldness. “You’re not even hiding it anymore, are you, Monica?” Seven years of marriage, a son, a life—all tossed aside for a washed-up “Golden Boy.” Monica sneered. “I’ll ask one more time. Who told you that you could touch my things?” “I’ll touch whatever I want.” For seven years, we had no secrets. I let her check my location, my messages, everything. Now, she had a “private life.” I told her to get out. She didn’t hesitate; she turned on her heel and walked. But the front door opened before she could reach it. Zavier was standing there, flanked by Monica’s three best friends. They were supposed to be at the spa. Zavier was wearing swim trunks and an open shirt. He took in the shattered glass and the tension in the room, then walked over to Monica and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Trouble in paradise?” He knew exactly what was happening. He took Monica’s hand and guided it toward his lap, right in front of me. I felt a wave of nausea. I covered Jamie’s eyes, ready to roar. Zavier spoke first. “Ben, I told you to ask her what she wanted. This is a friends’ getaway. Spouses shouldn’t interfere. Look how upset you’ve made her.” Every word was a needle pressed into Monica’s ego. She melted into him, cooing, “What are you doing here?” The tone she used was unrecognizable—sweet, submissive, nothing like the woman who just screamed at me. Zavier grinned, squeezing her. “I was afraid Ben’s ‘no’ wasn’t really what you wanted. So, I brought the spa to you. We’re going to use your big pool for some… private swimming lessons.” “Isn’t he the best?” one of the friends piped up. “Zavier, you have to help me with my stroke next.” Monica pulled him closer, her possessiveness flaring. “I’m teaching him first,” she snapped. They walked toward the backyard pool, the “squad” trailing behind them like disciples. I was left in the living room with the ruins of my marriage and my son. Jamie started to cry. He climbed onto the sofa and tried to wipe the blood from my face with his small sleeve. “Dad… this isn’t how the book went.” I held him tight. [System Reboot Progress: 85%] 04. Jamie was starting to doubt the “original plot.” He still held onto a tiny sliver of hope that his mother could be saved. For his sake, I went out to the pool for one last attempt at reason. What I saw made me want to burn the house down. The pool, which I had meticulously maintained with imported saltwater, was now a mess of spilled drinks and suggestive chaos. Monica was draped over the edge, completely exposed, while Zavier moved behind her. She didn’t even look ashamed when she saw me. “I’m just… helping him with his form.” Her friends stood guard, giggling, their eyes glued to the spectacle. I felt a phantom bile rise in my throat. I was done. “Monica, we’re going to the lawyer tomorrow. I want a divorce.” I turned to leave. Jamie, who had followed me, suddenly snapped. He was too young to fully grasp the filth of what they were doing, but he knew his mother was being taken. He knew his home was breaking. He sprinted toward Zavier. Before anyone could stop him, his tiny hand connected with Zavier’s face in a sharp slap. “Liar! You know how to swim! Why are you making my Mommy do this?!” Zavier let out a low, theatrical groan. “Monica, look at your son. He’s calling me a liar.” He shifted in the water, making a mocking gesture. Jamie grabbed Zavier’s arm, screaming, “Get away from her! Get out of our house!” I ran to grab Jamie, wanting to pull him away from the rot. But the three “friends” stepped in, clawing at Jamie to help Zavier. In the chaos, Zavier looked at me, a look of pure, mocking triumph in his eyes. Then, he let himself fall backward into the deep end. “Help! I can’t swim! He’s trying to kill me!” he screamed. Monica panicked. Without a second thought, she shoved Jamie and me. We weren’t prepared. We tumbled into the water, and she immediately turned her back on us to “save” Zavier. “If anything happens to him, Ben, I’ll make sure you rot in a cell!” The women hauled Zavier onto the deck. Monica looked back at me with eyes as cold as a grave. The friends crowded around Zavier, who was faking a coughing fit. When I finally surfaced, clutching Jamie, they reached down—not to help us, but to push us back under. “Ben, this is too much,” one of them said, her hand on my shoulder, shoving me down. “Zavier is a saint. You need to learn your place.” Under the water, I struggled. Jamie had swallowed a mouthful; I could see the bubbles escaping his lips. He was terrified. But the hands on our heads wouldn’t let up. Then I heard Monica’s voice from above the surface, muffled but clear: “Hold them down a little longer. They need to learn.” I pulled Jamie into my chest, shielding him with my body, my heart hammering against my ribs. Then, Zavier’s voice: “Okay, Monica, I’m feeling better. Let’s play something else.” The pressure vanished. I broke the surface, gasping, and scrambled to the tiles. I immediately started chest compressions on Jamie. He coughed up a lungful of water and started wailing. My vision went red. I looked at Monica, my voice a guttural snarl. “Monica… you’re going to regret this for the rest of your life.” She didn’t even acknowledge the threat. She just took Zavier’s hand and walked away. “What should we play next, Zavier?” I gripped the concrete until my fingernails bled. [Heartthrob System: Reboot 100%] [Would you like to activate, Host?] Activate, I screamed in my mind. Burn it all down.

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I’d brought my father-in-law here for a much-needed vacation, but the second we stepped toward the hotel pool, a man in a garish, overpriced designer shirt started running his mouth. “Since when does this place let just any stray in? You sure they didn’t sneak in through the service entrance?” He pinched his nose, eyeing us with a performative shudder of disgust. “Sharing a pool with people like this… I’m actually worried about catching something.” My mood, which had been light only moments ago, curdled instantly. I didn’t hold back. “We’re paying guests. We have every right to be here. If you’re so worried about the crowd, go build yourself a private villa.” The man’s face turned a violent shade of puce. He surged forward, jabbing a finger inches from my nose. “Do you have any idea who owns this hotel? My wife! I have the penthouse suite on a permanent lease!” He sprayed spit as he screamed. “Get out. Now. Your cheap, pathetic energy is polluting the water. It’s making me sick just looking at you.” I traded a look with my father-in-law, Antony. Our eyes went cold simultaneously. This was one of the flagship properties of the Whitmore Group—Octavia’s hotel. Since when did she have another husband? 1 Antony and I had intended to keep things low-key. We hadn’t flashed our credentials at check-in, wanting a genuine guest experience, but I never expected it to turn into a circus. Antony had been a titan of industry for thirty years. He didn’t even see this clown as a threat; he saw him as a nuisance to be swatted. “Who do you think you are, giving us orders?” Antony said, his voice level but carrying the weight of a gavel. “You’re the one who needs to leave. Your lack of manners is the only thing making this place feel cheap.” He turned to me, ignoring the man who was now vibrating with rage. “Beckett, let’s just swim. Ignore him. When we get back, I’ll have a very long conversation with Octavia about exactly what’s going on here.” Being ignored was clearly the man’s breaking point. A cruel, jagged smile twisted his face. “Fine. If you love the water so much, let’s see how long you can stay in it.” He barked into his phone, and a moment later, a burly, thick-necked guy in a staff polo jogged over. He looked at the garish man with fawning desperation. “Hey, Zane. What’s up? Ready for your lesson?” Zane pointed at us, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Rick, do me a favor. These two bottom-feeders need a lesson in humility. Show them how we handle ‘trash’ in Malibu.” Rick didn’t hesitate. He was a local swim coach, the kind of guy who thought muscles made him untouchable. “Don’t worry, Zane. I know exactly how to handle guys who can’t hold their breath.” Before I could react, Rick dove into the water. He surged toward Antony, and with a sickening splash, he jammed his hand onto the back of Antony’s head, forcing him deep under the surface. Antony was in his late sixties. He was fit, but he was no match for a man in his prime. He began to thrash, bubbles breaking the surface in a frantic, desperate rhythm. “Stop!” I screamed, lunging through the water to shove Rick away. But the coach was fast. He pivoted, using his momentum to shove me down, too. I swallowed a mouthful of chlorinated water, my lungs burning as I fought to get back up. I managed to catch Rick with a sharp, desperate kick to the groin. He let out a muffled groan underwater and released his grip. I scrambled to grab Antony, hauling him to the surface. He was blue around the lips, gasping for air, his body racked by a cough so violent it sounded like his lungs were tearing. This was a man who had built an empire from a single roadside motel into a global luxury brand. He was a man used to being treated with the utmost reverence. To be degraded like this… it was unthinkable. He leaned against the edge of the pool, his chest heaving. “You… you could have killed me,” he rasped, his voice trembling with fury. “This is assault. I’m calling my legal team. You’re finished.” Zane just laughed, swirling a drink he’d picked up from a nearby table. “Kill you? Who cares? My wife owns hundreds of hotels. She makes enough in a day to buy and sell your miserable lives ten times over. You want to talk about lawyers? You think you can afford to play in our league?” My heart hammered against my ribs, but not just from the exertion. This hotel was one of the many Antony had handed over to Octavia to manage. This man’s “owner” act was too specific to be a coincidence. I gripped Antony’s shoulder to steady him and looked Zane dead in the eye. “Is your wife’s name Octavia Whitmore?” He smirked, preening like a peacock. “So, you’ve heard of her. Good. At least you aren’t totally illiterate.” He leaned down over the edge of the pool. “If you get on your knees right now, apologize, and then scrub this deck until it sparkles, I might tell her to go easy on you. Otherwise, when she gets here, you’re dead meat.” A cold, hollow ache opened up in my chest. Octavia—the woman who had promised me forever, the woman I thought was my soulmate—was she really doing this? 2 Then, my eyes caught the tattoo just below his collarbone. It was a delicate, crimson maple leaf. I had seen the exact same design on Octavia’s lower hip. She’d told me she got it because the day we met, the autumn leaves were turning that specific, brilliant shade of red. She called it our “forever mark.” I remembered being so moved, so deeply touched by her romanticism. What a joke. It wasn’t our mark. It was theirs. The anger that rose in me was cold and sharp. It cleared my head. “As far as I know,” I said, my voice cutting through his laughter, “Octavia Whitmore’s husband is a man named Beckett Montgomery. And you don’t look like a Montgomery to me. You’re just the side-piece, aren’t you? A kept man who’s forgotten his place.” Zane’s smile vanished. His face contorted. “Don’t you dare mention that loser’s name to me. Love doesn’t follow a schedule. The person who isn’t loved is the real interloper. Beckett is just a ghost she hasn’t bothered to exorcise yet.” He pulled out his phone, his voice dropping into a sickening, performative whine as the call connected. “Octa? Baby, where are you? I’m at the pool and these two old creeps are harassing me. They’re calling me names, baby… it’s horrible. You need to get down here and handle this. And listen, I want the pool cleared. Just for us. I’ve been practicing some new… moves… in the water. I want to show you.” He hung up, his smugness returning tenfold. “She’ll be here in thirty minutes. You’re done. She has ways of making people like you disappear.” I was shaking, a wave of nausea rolling over me. To think of her whispering sweet nothings to me last night, only to plan “water moves” with this brat today… it was repulsive. Antony looked at me, and I saw the heartbreak in his eyes transition into a hardened, diamond-sharp resolve. He knew. “Octavia,” he whispered, his voice thick with disgust. “She’s exactly like her mother. Everything I gave her… I can take it all back.” Antony hated infidelity with a passion that bordered on the religious. His first wife—Octavia’s mother—had stripped him of everything years ago, running off with a younger man and leaving him to rebuild from nothing while raising a daughter alone. He had poured his soul into Octavia, only to find the rot was hereditary. Antony owned the empire. Octavia just ran a piece of it. And as for me—Beckett Montgomery—the world might think I was a “trophy husband” because I preferred the quiet of my art studio to the boardroom, but I was the sole heir to the Montgomery shipping fortune. I didn’t need Octavia’s money. I had only ever wanted her heart. “I can’t wait to see how she explains this,” I muttered. I noticed Antony’s face growing pale, his hand clutching at his chest. I moved to help him out of the water, but Zane gestured to the coach. Rick jumped back onto the deck and, as Antony reached for the ladder, Rick delivered a sharp, brutal kick to Antony’s shoulder. Antony splashed back into the pool, gasping. Zane roared with laughter. “Look at you! Like two drowning rats. You wanted the pool, didn’t you? Stay in it! Rick, don’t let them out until my wife gets here.” Rick smirked. “You got it, Zane. Just remember to tell Ms. Whitmore how helpful I was. I’m looking for that promotion to Head of Athletics.” Every time I tried to help Antony toward the edge, Rick was there, blocking us, threatening us with his heavy boots. Antony’s breathing became shallow, a terrifying whistling sound coming from his throat. “This isn’t a game!” I screamed at the shore. “He has a heart condition! Let him out or I swear to God, you’ll spend the rest of your life in a cage!” Zane just swirled his wine. “Nice try. The ‘heart attack’ gambit? Please. You were swimming fine a minute ago. Rick, go kill the heater for the pool. Let’s see how they like the cold-water treatment.” 3 “If he dies,” I spat, my voice cracking, “it’s murder. The police won’t care who your wife is.” Zane leaned back in his lounge chair, basking in the sun. “Oh, stop being so dramatic. You want out? Beg. I thought you were so ‘refined.’ Let’s hear it. Beg for your lives.” Antony’s lips were turning a terrifying shade of slate blue. He was shivering violently now, his eyes fluttering. I looked at him, ready to swallow every ounce of pride I had to save him. But Antony grabbed my arm. His grip was weak, but his eyes were fierce. “Don’t,” he wheezed. “I have never… knelt to a dog… and I won’t start now. Beckett… I’ll be okay. But after today… she is dead to me. I survived her mother. I’ll survive her.” Zane, annoyed by our defiance, turned to Rick. “Go to the kitchen. Bring out two buckets of ice. Let’s give these ‘high-society’ types a real chill.” The ice hit the water around us with a series of sharp splashes. The temperature plummeted. I held Antony close, trying to share my body heat, but I was losing the battle. He was slipping away, his consciousness fading. “Help!” I screamed, the sound echoing off the luxury tiles. “Somebody! He’s dying!” The pool area was secluded, reserved for “VIPs.” No one came. Rick finally looked a little nervous. He glanced at Antony’s limp form. “Hey, Zane… he looks pretty bad. Maybe we should let them up? If someone dies in the pool, the health inspectors will shut us down for weeks. Ms. Whitmore wouldn’t like that.” Zane paused, then shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. But they haven’t learned their lesson. I told them—apologize, or stay in.” He looked down at me. “Tell the truth, loser. Tell me I’m the man Octavia loves. Tell me Beckett Montgomery is a pathetic cuckold, and I’m the real king of this castle.” He didn’t know I was Beckett. He was asking me to curse my own name. I looked at Antony. His head was lolling back. His heart was failing. Nothing mattered—not my pride, not my name, not the betrayal. “I beg you,” I whispered, my voice thick with bile. “Please. Just let him up. He’s dying.” Zane grinned, a predator who had finally tasted blood. “Say it. Say Beckett is a loser and I’m the husband.” I squeezed my eyes shut, my nails digging into my palms. “Beckett is a pathetic loser,” I choked out. “You’re… you’re the only one she loves. Now let us up!” He laughed, a high, mocking sound. “I said I’d consider it. And I’ve considered it. I think you can stay in another five minutes.” 4 “You’re a dead man,” I hissed, my voice a low, terrifying promise. “That is her father. Antony Whitmore. If he dies, Octavia will skin you alive herself just to keep the cops off her back.” Zane froze for a split second, then doubled over in laughter. “Oh, that’s rich! Now he’s the father? You just called him ‘Dad’ ten minutes ago! You guys are desperate. What’s next? Is he the Pope?” Antony’s body went rigid in my arms, then suddenly limp. He stopped shivering. His breathing stopped. “Help! Help! Cardiac arrest!” I roared. Finally, the hotel manager came running toward the commotion. He didn’t recognize Antony immediately—it had been years since Antony had personally visited this site—but he saw the body in the water and turned pale. “Mr. Zane, what is happening?” “Just teaching some trespassers a lesson, Miller,” Zane said, though he looked a bit twitchy now. “They need to come out, now,” Miller said, his professional instinct for liability kicking in. “If a guest dies, we’re all ruined.” Zane sighed, waving a hand dismissively. “Fine, fine. Let them up. They’ve ruined my afternoon anyway.” Rick hauled us out. I collapsed on the deck, coughing, but immediately scrambled toward the locker rooms where our bags were. I needed Antony’s nitroglycerin. I found the bottle, my hands shaking so hard the pills nearly spilled. I ran back to Antony, who was sprawled on the tiles, silent. I tried to prize his jaw open to get the pill under his tongue. Suddenly, a foot shot out. Zane kicked the bottle right out of my hand. It skittered across the deck and fell through the drainage grate into the pool. “Enough with the theater,” Zane snapped. “You’re out. Now get your trash and get lost before I call security to have you arrested for trespassing.” The world turned red. I didn’t think. I lunged upward and landed a solid, bone-crunching hook right across Zane’s jaw. He went down hard. “If he dies,” I roared, “I will burn your world to the ground!” Zane screamed, clutching his face. “You hit me! Rick! Miller! Kill him!” The coach and the manager grabbed me, pinning my arms behind my back. Zane got up, his eyes wild with fury, and began raining slaps and punches across my face. My head spun, the copper taste of blood filling my mouth. I forced myself to stay conscious. I had to save Antony. I wrenched my arm free, nearly dislocating my shoulder, and lunged for my phone in my discarded bag. I dialed Octavia. “Octavia! Antony is having a heart attack at the Malibu pool. Get a medical team here now! If you’re not here in ten minutes, he’s gone!” Octavia’s voice came through, cold and irritated. “Beckett? What are you talking about? My father is in the city. Stop playing games to get my attention. I’m in a meeting. Call an ambulance if you’re so worried.” She hung up. I stared at the phone, my heart breaking for the final time. Then, the glass doors to the lobby slid open. Zane’s face transformed from rage to pure, ecstatic joy. “Octa! Baby! You’re finally here!”

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Five years into our marriage, Evelyn did something unprecedented: she willingly sat across from me at the kitchen island for breakfast. Trailing right behind her was a little girl, maybe three years old. When the child looked up, her brow bone, the slope of her nose, the shape of her eyes—they were an exact replica of Evelyn’s. “A girl from my old startup incubator passed away. She has no family left,” Evelyn said, not quite meeting my eyes. “We’re going to legally adopt her. Add her to our household.” My hand didn’t falter as I poured my coffee. I simply took a sip and asked, perfectly evenly, “A girl from your incubator? Was this the friend you stayed with during your ‘business trips’ to Austin three years ago, or did you rent that villa in West Lake Hills just for her?” The color drained from Evelyn’s face instantly. “He… he didn’t want to make a fuss. He’s just going to live here and help raise the kid—” she started to stammer, the slick CEO facade cracking for a fraction of a second. “Help raise the kid?” I cut her off. “Is he going to be living in the guest suite right next to our master bedroom?” “You’re getting a child out of this without having to do any of the work! Isn’t that a good thing?!” she snapped, her voice pitching up in defensive agitation. I set my mug down slowly on the marble counter. I looked at this woman—the woman who had used the four million dollars from my trust fund to launch her three subsidiaries. The woman whose family’s hollowed-out corporate empire was currently surviving on an eighty-million-dollar lifeline from my mother’s venture capital firm. “Evelyn,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I already had the divorce papers drawn up.” “Every single asset to your name is about to be wiped clean.” 01 “Wiped clean?” Evelyn repeated the words, letting out a sharp, breathless laugh like she had just heard the punchline to a terrible joke. She lifted the little girl into one of the high chairs, turned to face me, and shoved her hands into the pockets of her tailored slacks. “Charles, you’ve played the quiet, supportive husband for five years. Who is the legal CEO of all three of my subsidiaries?” “You are.” “Whose name is on the deed to this estate?” “Yours.” “Exactly.” She pulled out a stool and sat down, languidly picking up a piece of artisanal toast. “That eighty-million-dollar bridge loan from your mother? That’s B2B corporate credit. It’s an ironclad, company-to-company agreement. It doesn’t have a single syllable to do with you, Charles, as an individual.” She took a delicate bite of the toast. “What exactly are you going to divorce me with?” The three-year-old girl sat in her high chair, stabbing at a cup of yogurt with a plastic spoon, glancing up at me between every strike. Her brow bone. The bridge of her nose. Even the tiny mole at the corner of her mouth. She was a carbon copy of Evelyn. “You think I haven’t prepared for this?” I asked. “Prepared what? Found a lawyer?” She smirked. “Ms. Campbell, right? I had lunch with her yesterday. Her entire firm is now on retainer as my corporate legal team.” I just looked at her. She set the toast down, dusted the crumbs from her manicured fingers, and stood up. “Charles, stop throwing a tantrum. Toby is coming over this afternoon. Be useful and help get the guest suite ready for him.” She walked to the foyer to slip on her heels. As she bent down to adjust the strap, she glanced back at the little girl. “Be good, Mia. Mommy will be back tonight.” Mommy. Not Auntie. She wasn’t even bothering to hide it anymore. Twelve minutes after the heavy oak door clicked shut, my phone vibrated on the counter. Unknown number. “Hey, Charles? It’s Toby.” The voice was soft, excessively sweet, dripping with a manufactured innocence. “Nessa said I should come over around three. Is the room all set up for me?” He called her Nessa. “What else did she tell you?” I asked. “She said… you were totally okay with this.” “Which exact words of mine gave you the impression I was okay with this?” Silence stretched over the line for two agonizing seconds. “Look, Charles, I really don’t take up much space,” he said, his voice dropping into a practiced, pleading register. “I’ll just help look after Mia, cook the meals. You can just look at me as a free live-in nanny…” “The person pinned at the top of your iMessage,” I said. “What’s the contact name?” His breath hitched. “I saw her phone this morning. Between eight and nine a.m., you sent her eight texts. The last one read: ‘Wifey, did he say yes? I’m so nervous.’” “Charles, I—” “You also have a TikTok account. Toby’s Code to Happiness. 1.1 million followers. Three months ago, you posted a video. The background was a living room—warm ambient lighting, a marble coffee table, custom Italian drapes. You looked right into the camera and said, ‘Hey guys, welcome to the home my wife and I built.’” Dead silence on the other end. “That living room is my house. I ordered those drapes from Milan. I picked out that marble table.” Nothing but the faint sound of static. “Are you still coming at three?” I asked. His voice was tiny now, but entirely unyielding. “Charles… Nessa told me to come.” At exactly 3:02 PM, the doorbell rang. He stood on the porch, flashing a smile that revealed two deep, charming dimples. “Hi, Charles.” He bent down, gripping the handles of two large suitcases. The little girl, Mia, scrambled off the living room sofa and launched herself into his arms. “Daddy!” He scooped her up, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and then looked right at me. There wasn’t a single trace of guilt in his eyes. He wandered around the living room, taking in the space like he was returning to his own kingdom. In his mind, I suppose, it already was. “Which way is the guest suite, Charles? I can find my own way.” “The ring on your left hand,” I said. His smile froze. On his left ring finger sat a custom-cut sapphire ring. My engagement ring. Two years ago, Evelyn told me she had sent it to a jeweler for deep cleaning. It never came back. He quickly tucked his hand behind his back. “Nessa gave it to me…” “I know exactly who gave it to you.” I turned and walked up the sweeping staircase. His voice chased after me, small and laced with a pathetic, manufactured grievance. “I’m really just here to help, Charles.” 02 “Charles, stop being so petty.” My father-in-law, Richard, called me much earlier than I anticipated. “Evelyn explained everything to me. That child is an orphan from her old accelerator program. You’re a grown man, why are you being so narrow-minded?” “Richard, the child calls Toby ‘Daddy.’” “Kids don’t know any better! They call whoever feeds them ‘Daddy’.” He spoke rapidly, aggressively, like he was reciting a script he’d rehearsed all night. “Evelyn already gave me the bottom line. That boy is just hired help. He’ll stay a few days and leave. The fact that you’re hyper-fixating on this—is it because you’re feeling insecure that we’ve been married five years and you still haven’t given her a child?” The words drove into me like a physical blade. My fingernails bit hard into my palms. “Do you know why we haven’t had a child in five years, Richard?” “If your biology is flawed, go see a specialist. I’ve told you a hundred times—” “In our second year of marriage, Evelyn had me taking those expensive ‘holistic fertility teas’ from her private specialist for six months. I took the formula to an independent lab. Three of the primary botanical extracts in that tea cause long-term male sterility.” The line went dead quiet for two full seconds. “You’re speaking absolute nonsense.” “You can have the lab report verified yourself.” “Why would I look at that garbage? Has my daughter not given you a spectacular life? Are you really going to tear this family apart over your own insecurities?” He hung up. At noon, Toby came down from the guest suite and prepared an elaborate spread in the kitchen. Braised short ribs, organic roasted vegetables, a delicate consommé. Mia sat at the dining table, clutching a small bowl, rice grains stuck to her chubby cheeks. He sat beside her, gently wiping her face with a damp cloth, playing the picture-perfect father. When he saw me come down the stairs, he stood up. “Charles, I poured you a bowl of soup, too.” The bowl was placed at the absolute furthest end of the long dining table. He was sitting in my usual chair. I didn’t touch the soup. That afternoon, I went to the pharmacy. When I swiped the platinum card Evelyn had given me, the machine beeped red. “I’m sorry, sir. This card has been deactivated.” I pulled out my personal debit card and punched in the PIN. Insufficient funds. I opened my mobile banking app in the parking lot. Three days ago, a massive wire transfer had drained my personal account. Two hundred thousand dollars. Every last cent, swept directly into the corporate holding account of Evelyn’s company. Authorized by: Evelyn. She had utilized a buried clause in the original pre-nuptial investment agreement I signed five years ago: “Party B’s capital shall be subject to the unified allocation and management of Party A.” As the sun began to set, Richard arrived at the house. The moment he laid eyes on Toby, his face lit up into a warm, crinkling smile. “Oh, look at you, what a handsome young man. Come here, let Grandpa see little Mia.” He scooped the child up, pinching her cheeks, kissing her forehead, his eyes crinkling into half-moons of pure joy. “This nose. It’s exactly like Evelyn’s when she was little.” He knew. He knew absolutely everything. Richard pulled a velvet box from his tailored coat pocket. He flipped it open. Inside rested a vintage Patek Philippe watch. I recognized it instantly. It was item number eleven on the list of family heirlooms my mother had gifted me upon my marriage. Valued at roughly a hundred and twenty thousand dollars. In our second year of marriage, Richard claimed he needed to borrow it to impress some investors at a gala. He never returned it. He reached out and slid the gold band onto Toby’s wrist. “Here, son. Take this. Raising a kid is hard work.” Toby put up a weak, performative protest twice. On the third push, he accepted it. “Thank you so much, sir.” He said it while looking directly at me, a sly smile playing on his lips. Richard settled onto my leather sofa, took a sip of the pour-over coffee Toby handed him, and finally turned his gaze to me. “Charles, you’re thirty now. You know it gets harder for a man to start over and have kids after thirty. Look how sweet Mia is. Just help raise her. We can figure the rest out later.” “Richard, that watch belongs to my family.” “What’s yours, what’s ours? You married into this family, Charles. It all belongs to the house.” He set his coffee cup down, the porcelain clinking sharply against the saucer. “If you really can’t get your head around this, then let me spell it out for you. Evelyn told me you want a divorce.” He stared at me, the grandfatherly warmth evaporating, replaced by the cold, calculating eyes of a shark. “You walked into this family’s house, Charles. You don’t get to just walk out.” “That money your mother injected into the firm? That’s business capital. Investments carry risk. Didn’t they teach you that in private school?” “You’re one man. No kids. No assets. What exactly are you going to do out there in the real world?” Toby stood in the threshold of the kitchen, holding Mia against his hip. He didn’t say a word. But he was smiling. The dimples were very deep. Richard stood up, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle from his wool trousers. “Think very carefully before you speak to me again.” “A woman like my daughter? There’s a line of men out the door begging to be in your position. You should be counting your blessings in secret.” 03 “Having dinner at the house tonight. My dad invited some extended family.” Evelyn’s text arrived at 4:00 PM. By the time I walked into the dining room, seven or eight people were already seated. All of Evelyn’s aunts, uncles, and cousins—people who usually couldn’t be bothered to visit—were gathered in full force. At the long oak table, my usual seat was gone. Toby sat directly to Evelyn’s right. Mia was perched happily on his lap. The chair I had sat in every night for five years had been physically moved to a dark corner of the room. “Oh, Charles’s here. Grab a stool,” Richard said, not even bothering to look up from his wine glass. Evelyn’s eldest aunt leaned forward, eyes gleaming with gossip. “Evelyn, sweetheart, is this the young man you were telling us about? Very handsome. And the little one looks just like you.” Evelyn offered a tight, composed smile. She didn’t deny it. The aunt turned her predatory gaze to Toby. “How old are you, young man?” “Twenty-four,” Toby replied, projecting bashful politeness. “Raising a child at twenty-four. Very capable. Much better than some people.” The aunt shot a pointed, withering look in my direction. Richard seamlessly picked up the thread. “Isn’t that the truth? Five years under our roof and not a damn thing to show for it.” A table full of people. Not a single one spoke up for me. I stood there in the doorway, a glass of ice water in my hand, feeling the chill seep into my fingers. “Charles, don’t just stand there. Sit.” Evelyn finally spoke. She pointed with her fork to a flimsy, folding chair they had crammed at the very foot of the table. I didn’t move. “Evelyn, my lawyer can’t get ahold of you.” “We’re eating. Why are we talking about this now?” she deflected smoothly. “Ms. Campbell’s firm suddenly signed an annual retainer with you. I tried to hire another firm, and they told me you had already made a phone call. I’ve reached out to six top-tier family law practices in this city today. Three of them are your corporate clients, two of them received personal calls from you this morning, and the last one suddenly decided they ‘have a conflict of interest’.” The dining room fell dead silent. You could hear the hum of the refrigerator. “Charles—” Richard slammed his heavy silver fork onto the table. “Are you really going to throw a tantrum in front of the whole family?” “You call this a tantrum?” “You are being completely unreasonable.” The eldest aunt slapped her palm against the marble. “Has Evelyn not given you the world? Look around this city. How many men get to live in a mansion like this? How many men get to spend the kind of money you do?” I locked eyes with the aunt. “Spend money? My credit cards were frozen yesterday. Two hundred thousand dollars was illegally swept from my personal checking account. I currently have three hundred dollars to my name, and that’s only because I took out cash two days ago.” The aunt blinked, taken aback. She turned to Evelyn. “Evelyn, is that…” “Auntie, it’s a private marital issue. Don’t listen to his paranoia.” Evelyn’s voice was a masterclass in soothing, patronizing calm. She didn’t even stop cutting her steak. “Charles’s mental health has been very fragile lately. I’ve already made an appointment for him to see a psychiatrist.” A psychiatrist. She was calling me clinically insane. In front of her entire bloodline. Toby sat there, eyes downcast, meticulously cutting carrots into tiny pieces for Mia. He didn’t speak. He didn’t look at me. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw his phone screen light up. I watched his thumbs move rapidly. Two words. Sent. Handled it. I couldn’t see who he was texting. But I saw the contact name at the top of the chat perfectly clearly. Wifey. At eleven o’clock that night, I sat alone in the darkness of the master bedroom. Bank accounts frozen. Legal avenues completely barricaded. A family entirely complicit in my psychological destruction. Through the thin drywall, I could hear Toby’s sickeningly sweet voice cooing a lullaby to the little girl. I pulled out my phone. I scrolled down to a number I hadn’t dialed in five years. Mom. I didn’t press call. Just as the screen went black, Richard’s voice drifted up from the sweeping staircase below. He was talking to Toby. “Don’t you worry, Toby. You settle in. This house will belong to you sooner or later.” “If he actually packs up and leaves, all the better. Gets him out of our hair. It’s not like he can take a single dime of value out of this house anyway.” 04 “Sign it.” Early the next morning, Evelyn slapped a thick, bound document onto the marble island in front of me. Supplemental Marital Agreement. Twelve neatly printed pages. I flipped open the cover. Clause 3: Party B (Charles) voluntarily waives all retroactive claims to equity or dividends in Party A’s affiliated enterprises. Clause 7: Party B assumes full individual responsibility for any personal debt incurred during the marriage. Clause 9: Party B acknowledges that the initial four-million-dollar capital injection was entirely absorbed into corporate equity upon marriage and is non-refundable. Clause 11: Upon signing, Party B consents to an uncontested dissolution of marriage and forfeits all claims to post-marital shared assets. I turned to the final page. Evelyn had already signed her name in sharp, aggressive strokes. Next to it was the official corporate seal of her holding company. “Sign this, and we can part ways amicably. I won’t make things ugly for you,” she said, pouring herself a shot of espresso and sitting across from me. “I’ll let you stay in the house until December. I’ll open a new debit card for you, transfer three thousand a month for living expenses. That should be enough to keep you afloat while you look for an entry-level job.” Three thousand a month. I brought four million dollars in liquid capital into this marriage. My mother floated an eighty-million-dollar bridge loan to save her father from federal bankruptcy. And she was offering me a three-thousand-dollar allowance. “And if I don’t sign?” She took a slow sip of her espresso. “If you don’t sign, you can still walk out the door. But you walk out with the clothes on your back. Nothing else. Oh, and those family heirlooms you’ve been whining about? My father has legal possession of them now. He says they were gifts. You want to sue him for them? Be my guest. Get in line at the courthouse.” She set the demitasse cup down, her eyes locking onto mine with a chilling predatory confidence. “Charles, you have grossly overestimated your own leverage.” “What exactly do you think you have? Your mother’s reputation? Victoria’s name holds weight in the Valley, sure. But in family court? It’s utterly useless.” Toby drifted out of the kitchen, balancing a tray of breakfast. Sunny-side-up eggs, artisanal sourdough, fresh-pressed orange juice. He slid a plate in front of Evelyn, then placed a smaller one in front of Mia. Nothing for me. “Breakfast is ready, Nessa.” He slid into the seat right beside her. At my island. In my spot. Richard wandered down the stairs in his silk robe, glancing at the thick legal document on the counter. “Just sign it, Charles. The sooner you sign, the sooner you’re free. Look at yourself. No money, no kids, no lawyer. What are you even fighting for?” “If you drag this out, don’t blame me for being blunt—strip away your mommy’s money, and what the hell are you even worth?” Evelyn leaned back in the plush barstool, crossing one elegantly tailored leg over the other, watching me. I knew that exact expression intimately. It was a deep, bone-level arrogance. She was absolutely certain I would sign. She was certain I had zero chips left to play. She was certain she had already won the war. “You don’t have to sign it, Charles. But the second you step out of this family’s shadow, you are a nobody.” She was smiling when she delivered the final blow. And then, my phone rang. The screen lit up. One word. Mom. I didn’t even have time to swipe answer. Because in that exact same millisecond, Evelyn’s iPhone started vibrating violently against the marble counter. Then the landline on the wall began to shriek. Then Richard’s phone buzzed aggressively from his robe pocket. Three separate ringtones, exploding into the quiet morning all at once. Evelyn frowned, picking up her phone. I couldn’t hear the voice on the other end, but I heard the tone. Frantic. I watched her face. The color didn’t just drain; it was violently sucked out of her. First her lips went white. Then her cheeks. Then the flush completely vanished from her neck. It was as if someone had opened a valve and drained the blood directly from her veins. She slowly lowered the phone, staring blankly into space. Her lips parted, trembling, but no sound came out. Richard had answered his phone, too. The voice on the other end was screaming so loud I could hear the tinny static. Richard’s face contorted into a mask of pure terror. “What do you mean ‘frozen’? What do you mean all of it?!” he roared into the receiver. Toby stood frozen by the stove, Mia balanced on his hip, the smug little smile still plastered to his face, entirely oblivious to the tectonic plates shifting beneath his feet. I picked up my phone and swiped the green button. “Mom.” My mother’s voice flowed through the speaker, as calm and cold as deep ocean water. “It’s done, Charles.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “419161”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day the orchestra’s new soloist joined us, she walked straight up to Lennon. Her fingers trailed over the polished ebony of the grand piano at his side—the one everyone knew was off-limits. With a saccharine smile, she asked, “They say only the mistress of the house is allowed to touch this. Do you think I could try a piece on it?” Lennon didn’t even look up from his scores. “Go ahead,” he murmured. “Whatever you like.” The rehearsal hall went deathly quiet. Dozens of eyes swung toward me, sharp and stinging. Everyone knew who I was—the woman who had stayed by Lennon’s side for seven years, from the damp basement practice rooms to the world’s most prestigious stages. I was the girlfriend who had never once been allowed to touch his family’s piano, let alone his family’s name. That piano had belonged to his late mother. For seven years, I wasn’t even permitted to lift the velvet cover. As the chill of the air conditioning seeped through my collar, I suddenly saw the finish line of this relationship. Seven years of devotion didn’t weigh as much as a light, flirtatious request from a girl who had just walked through the door. 1 After the auditions that afternoon, the orchestra manager caught me in the hall. “Regina, about the piano four-hands piece you were supposed to perform with Lennon… you can stop prepping it.” My heart did a slow, painful roll. “Oh?” “Lennon wants the new girl, Daisy, to play it with him instead.” I’d seen it coming, but the sting was still fresh, like a paper cut to the soul. I didn’t make a scene. I just nodded and walked away. That night, I dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. My hand shook slightly as I held the phone to my ear. “Everett,” I said when he finally picked up. “You once told me you wanted to marry me at the Musikverein in Vienna. Does that offer still stand?” There was a long silence on the other end, followed by the sound of someone waking up from a deep sleep. His voice was thick with a heavy rasp. “Am I dreaming?” “You can say no,” I began, my voice wavering. Before I could finish, I heard a loud thud—the sound of someone falling out of bed. His voice returned, frantic and breathless. “Yes. Yes, it stands. It stands forever. Any time, any place. Just tell me where you are.” I let out a weak, shaky laugh. The suffocating weight I’d been carrying all day eased just a fraction. When Lennon finally came home, I was already packing. He didn’t notice the suitcase at first. He just tugged at his tie, looking exhausted and handsome in that effortless way that used to make me melt. “Make me some tea,” he commanded casually. “The newcomers were a handful at the welcome dinner. One of the girls kept badgering me to drink. I’m exhausted.” I looked at the faint smear of pink lipstick on his white collar. I didn’t move. “Lennon,” I said. “Let’s break up.” He froze, his hand still on his tie. Only then did his gaze drop to the suitcase by my feet. He rubbed his temples, his dark eyes flashing with irritation. “Is this because I let her play the piano?” I didn’t answer. “Don’t be so small-minded, Regina,” he sighed, his voice dripping with condescension. “I’m just trying to keep the talent happy. It’s business.” Talent? Daisy had fumbled through that piece, missing a dozen notes. She wasn’t a talent; she was a distraction. He turned toward the bathroom, dismissive as always. “Go make the tea. Stop overthinking things.” “Lennon,” I said, my voice like flint. “I told you years ago. My plan was to be married by thirty. I turned thirty today.” He stopped in his tracks. The fake patience he’d been wearing finally shattered. “Regina, are we really doing this again? This constant begging for a ring… it’s pathetic. It makes you look cheap.” He turned to face me, his words like serrated blades. “I’ve told you a thousand times—the orchestra is in a growth phase. I don’t have the energy to waste on something as trivial as a wedding right now.” Trivial. Every new investor we’d landed, every world tour I’d meticulously organized, every sleepless night I’d spent balancing the books while he practiced—all of that had cost me my health. My last medical report was a sea of red ink, a physical map of the stress I’d endured for his dream. And in return, he called me “cheap.” His “precious” energy was apparently too expensive for me, but he had plenty of it for a girl who’d been there less than twenty-four hours. He had enough energy to worry if her seat cushion was soft enough and if she was having fun at the party. I took a breath and met his eyes. “I’m done, Lennon. Either we get married, or we’re over. Choose.” His last shred of restraint snapped. He ripped off his tie and hurled it onto the sofa. “Fine. You want to break up? We’re broken up. Suit yourself.” As the sound of the shower started, a wave of cold clarity washed over me. I had always known I wasn’t his “first choice.” Lennon never lacked for admirers. I was just the one with the most endurance, the one who refused to leave when he was a struggling nobody. He hadn’t stayed with me out of love; he’d stayed because he was too “moral” to throw away a woman who had sacrificed everything for him. Love is a loud thing, but the absence of it is even louder. On my birthdays, he’d buy a cake, but it was never the flavor I liked. When I was sick, he’d buy medicine, but only days later after I’d already recovered. I’d buy bridal magazines and “Wedding Countdown” books, only to hide them away like contraband whenever he gave me that look of utter disgust. I wasn’t just tired. I was empty. 2 My phone buzzed repeatedly in my pocket. I pulled it out to find the orchestra’s group chat blowing up. Daisy had posted a video. It was her and Lennon at the dinner, playing a four-hands piece on his mother’s piano. She had even set a wine glass carelessly on the wood finish—something Lennon would have flayed me for. In the video, they leaned close, their eyes locked in a way that was undeniably intimate. At one point, their cheeks brushed so closely it looked like a kiss. Daisy had captioned it: “Just the new girl, but I’m already feeling more love than the ‘veterans.’ So touched. Thank you, Lennon, for the special treatment.” Lennon, who was supposedly still in the shower, replied instantly: “You deserve it.” He even used a heart emoji—something he used to call “childish” when I did it. I remembered three years ago, when I’d secured a prestigious industry award for the orchestra. I’d sent a playful message in the group chat: “Chief, wasn’t I amazing? Don’t I get a reward?” That message had hung there in total silence for twenty-four hours. No one replied. When I’d confronted him about the embarrassment, he’d just scoffed. “Regina, how old are you? That cutesy stuff is embarrassing. I’m not going to play along and humiliate myself.” I was twenty-nine then, and I had actually spent the night wondering if I was the problem. But look at him now. Even an iceberg melts for the right person. He wasn’t incapable of being sweet; he just didn’t want to be sweet to me. I walked out of that house with my suitcase and didn’t look back. Over the next few days, I began the process of resigning from the orchestra. I stopped putting in the eighty-hour weeks. I stopped fixing Lennon’s mistakes. I simply existed in the background, avoiding him as he and Daisy grew bolder by the hour. Then, the floor fell out from under me. My father called, his voice shaking. “Regina… your mother found out about the breakup. She… she collapsed. We’re at the hospital.” “Dad, what happened?” “It’s her heart. But Regina, we don’t have her insurance card. You had it, remember? You were supposed to find that specialist through Lennon.” My stomach dropped. I had given my mother’s card to Lennon weeks ago, begging him to pass it to a world-renowned cardiologist he knew. He’d never mentioned it again. I called Lennon frantically. No answer. I called again and again. Nothing. I drove to his villa. I tried the door code, but it didn’t work. He’d already changed it. In a panic, I grabbed a heavy garden stone and smashed a side window. I climbed inside, gasping for air, but I froze the moment my feet hit the floor. The house was unrecognizable. Gone was the minimalist, sterile aesthetic Lennon had always insisted on. The living room was cluttered with pink throw pillows, dolls, and a girl’s curling iron left plugged in on the coffee table. I remembered when I’d bought a simple, whimsical lamp for our bedroom. Lennon had looked at it with such revulsion. “Regina, don’t pollute my space with your cheap, tacky taste.” I didn’t have time to cry. I scrambled to his desk, searching for my mother’s card. Suddenly, a heavy blow hit my shoulder. I was tackled to the ground, my face pressed into the carpet by two police officers. “We got a call for a break-in,” one of them barked. “Don’t move.” In the interrogation room, the detective glared at me. “You claim you’re Lennon’s girlfriend, but he says he doesn’t know you. We checked the house—there isn’t a single item belonging to a ‘Regina’ in there.” “I’ve lived there for years!” I screamed. “He says you’re a stalker. And you claim to be the director of the orchestra, but we called them. They said the director’s name is Daisy.” My heart hammered against my ribs. My phone was sitting on the table, lighting up over and over with calls from my father. I knew what those calls meant. “Please,” I sobbed, finally giving up. “I’ll confess to whatever you want. Just let me go see my mother. She’s dying.” “First she’s sick, now she’s dying? You think we’re stupid?” the officer sneered. “Mr. Lennon and his girlfriend were very clear. You stay here until they finish an inventory of the property to see what you stole.” I was held for two days and two nights. On the third day, Lennon finally showed up. 3 He wasn’t alone. Daisy was draped over his arm, dressed in a designer outfit that probably cost more than my car. The rest of the orchestra board members were trailing behind them like a royal court. Daisy stepped forward, her face a mask of fake concern. “Oh, Regina! I’m so, so sorry. I had no idea it was you who broke in.” She sighed, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I just took over as the Director of Operations, and I wanted to take everyone on a celebratory trip. I didn’t realize you were sitting in a cell all this time. My mistake! I hope you can forgive me.” Lennon pulled her back, his voice cold. “You don’t need to apologize to her. She broke into my home after we broke up. She’s lucky I’m not pressing charges.” I looked at him, my eyes burning. “Lennon… the card. My mother’s insurance card. Where is it? She needs it for the surgery.” Lennon blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. He’d forgotten. He’d forgotten the one thing I’d begged him to do for my family. He started patting his pockets, looking around vaguely, but it was clear he had no idea where he’d tossed it weeks ago. Right then, my phone buzzed on the table. It was a text from my father. She’s gone, Regina. My hands went limp at my sides. I looked at Lennon, who was still pretending to look for the card. “Stop,” I whispered. “Don’t bother. It doesn’t matter anymore.” Lennon caught the look in my eyes, and for a second, he looked almost haunted. But I didn’t care. I stood up, my legs feeling like lead, and turned to leave. “Wait!” Daisy called out. “Regina, I feel terrible about the jail time. But since you did break in, we really should check your bag. Just to make sure nothing of Lennon’s is missing.” Before I could react, she snatched my bag and dumped the contents onto the floor. A shower of elegant, thick-stock envelopes spilled out. Wedding invitations. Daisy gasped, covering her mouth. “Oh… Regina. You were still planning a wedding with Lennon? You even made fake invitations? This is… this is really sad. Was the whole ‘sick mother’ thing just a play for attention too?” I didn’t have the energy to argue. “Are you done? Did you find your silver spoons?” Daisy had achieved what she wanted—the room was looking at me with pity and disgust. I gathered my things and walked out. I hadn’t gone ten paces before Lennon caught up to me, grabbing my arm. “Where are you staying?” he demanded. “None of your business. Go back to Daisy. You two deserve each other.” Lennon let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You’re actually jealous. This whole act—the ‘wedding,’ the ‘dying mother’—it’s just a play to make me jealous.” “Believe whatever helps you sleep at night.” “Regina, enough!” he snapped. “You’ve had your tantrum. Can’t you just wait a few more years? Why do you have to force my hand like this? It’s exhausting.” I wrenched my arm away. My voice was so calm it surprised even me. “I am getting married, Lennon. But the groom isn’t you. And I will never, ever force you to do anything again. Do you understand?” Lennon’s face pale for a split second, then he smirked. “Regina, you’re thirty. Let’s be realistic. Look at yourself—you’re a wreck. Who else is going to take you?” “That’s not your concern.” I turned to walk away, but he softened his tone, that old, manipulative warmth creeping back in. “Look, Saturday is your birthday. You’ve always wanted to meet my father. I’ll host a party for you at the estate. We’ll call it even. How does that sound?” I actually paused. Not because I was touched, but because I was stunned. In seven years, he had never once remembered my birthday. I was always the one planning his. 4 Saturday arrived. I went to the estate. I didn’t go for him. I went because the guest list he’d mentioned included the most powerful movers and shakers in the music industry. If I was leaving the orchestra, I needed a new network. I needed a clean break. But when I arrived, I realized the “birthday party” was a lie. It was the day Lennon was introducing Daisy to his father as his “protégée”—and his future wife. He hadn’t been “unready” for marriage. He just hadn’t been ready for me. I turned to leave, but the head butler intercepted me. “You must be the assistant Mr. Lennon hired to help with the event. You’re late. The dinner is starting.” He looked at my cocktail dress with disdain. “And why are you dressed like that? You think you’re a guest?” Before I could respond, the doors to the grand ballroom swung open. Lennon and his father, Arthur, entered with Daisy on their arms. I was shoved into a corner by the staff. Lennon took the microphone on the stage. “Tonight, I want to officially introduce the industry to my brightest star: Daisy.” I watched from the shadows, my chest aching. I remembered a few years ago when I’d made the finals of a national concerto competition. My parents had been so proud. But a day before the finals, a girl with “connections” took my spot. I had asked Lennon to help me, to use his influence to just get me a fair hearing. He had told me: “Regina, the world isn’t fair. Normal people don’t get hand-outs. You need to learn to adapt, not rely on my ‘privilege’ to get ahead.” And yet, here he was, throwing a gala just to hand Daisy the world on a silver platter. “And now,” Lennon said, his voice full of pride, “Daisy will perform an original composition of hers.” The music began. As the first notes floated through the room, my blood turned to ice. That wasn’t her song. It was mine. The melody was a key that unlocked a door I’d kept shut for a long time. When I was seven, my mother had just been diagnosed with her heart condition. We were poor; we couldn’t afford a piano. She used to draw the keys on the kitchen table with a marker and teach me the notes. One evening, watching the sunset, she hummed a melody. “This is our song, Regina,” she’d said. “A promise between us.” We had spent years perfecting that piece. It was titled The Sunset Promise. It was the only song I’d ever played for Lennon in the privacy of our home. There was only one way Daisy had it. He had given it to her. I looked at Lennon. He caught my eye and immediately looked away, his jaw tightening. My phone chimed. A text from him: “Don’t make a scene. Daisy is performing with me in Vienna next week. People are doubting her skills; she needs the ‘composer’ credit to boost her image. I’m doing this for the good of the orchestra.” Daisy finished the piece to a standing ovation. Lennon joined her on stage, beaming. Arthur, his father, stood up to applaud. “Not only a virtuoso, but a brilliant composer. Lennon, you’ve found a treasure. This is the kind of woman the family needs.” “I agree, Father,” Lennon said, his smile never wavering. I couldn’t breathe. I stepped forward, out of the shadows. “Stop.” My voice was raspy, but it carried. The room went silent. “That song was written by my mother and me. It is not an original work by Daisy.” Lennon’s brow furrowed. Daisy’s face flickered with panic before she settled into a pout. “Regina… I know you wanted to be part of this family, but you can’t just lie because you’re jealous.” Arthur’s face darkened. “You’re the woman who’s been hounding my son for seven years? No wonder he didn’t marry you. You have no class.” Lennon didn’t defend me. He just sighed, looking weary. “Regina, give it a rest. This ‘desperate for a wedding’ act is becoming suffocating.” The whispers started. “I recognize her. She’s the one who followed him around like a puppy.” “Is she crazy? He’s clearly with Daisy now.” “She’s obsessed.” Daisy leaned in with a cruel smirk. “Regina, if you’re going to claim I stole your work, surely you have proof on your phone? A digital trail? Show us. If you can prove it, I’ll apologize.” I froze. I didn’t have the original files on this phone—but I did have something else. I had a folder of photoshopped wedding pictures I’d made months ago, a pathetic hobby I’d indulged in when I was still dreaming of a life with Lennon. Arthur signaled the security guards. “Check her phone. Let’s see what else she’s lying about.” As they moved toward me, I fell, scrambling to hold onto my bag. Daisy reached down, pretending to help me, but whispered in my ear: “Give up. Lennon is mine. You’re nothing.” She snatched the phone from my hand and, with a practiced flourish, connected it to the ballroom’s giant projection screen. “Let’s see Regina’s ‘evidence’!” she announced. The screen flickered to life. But it wasn’t a music file. It was a photo of a woman in a stunning lace wedding gown, standing in a sun-drenched cathedral. She was laughing, and a man in a tuxedo was leaning in to kiss her forehead. The room erupted in laughter. “Oh my god, she actually photoshopped herself into a wedding!” “This is tragic. I’d kill myself if I were that pathetic.” Lennon looked like he wanted to disappear. He stepped forward to shut it down, but then someone in the front row gasped. “Wait… that’s not Lennon in the photo.”

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The countdown is at seventy-two hours. In my eyes, these people have been dead to me for a long time—rotting from the inside out, stained beyond redemption. It happened on April Fool’s Day. To coax a smile out of their precious “golden boy,” my fiancé and my sister decided to turn me into a literal plaything. Toby, the boy they brought home to replace me, laughed as he shredded my clothes. He took a tube of lipstick and scrawled the word “BITCH” across my forehead in jagged, crimson strokes. When I didn’t react—when I just stood there, hollow and still—he lost interest in the art and delivered a brutal kick to my chest, sending me spiraling backward into the septic tank. When they finally fished me out, the air was thick with the sound of shutters clicking. A crowd of onlookers held up their phones, their mocking laughter sharp as needles. My sister, Madeline, stood a hundred yards away, pressing a silk handkerchief to her nose with a look of pure loathing. She wouldn’t even come near me. Toby looked at me with that practiced, wide-eyed innocence. “Happy April Fool’s, Gavin!” My fiancé, Sasha, stepped in front of him, shielding him as if he were the victim. Her voice was breezy, dismissive. “It was just a joke, Gavin. Don’t be so dramatic. Don’t take it to heart.” She signaled a nearby gardener to turn the high-pressure power washer on me. The jet of icy water slammed into my ribs, knocking me into the dirt. I curled into a ball, my skin turning a bruised, sickly purple from the cold, but I didn’t make a sound. By morning, the video of me—naked, shivering, and covered in filth—had gone viral within our social circles. Madeline blamed me for “tarnishing the family brand” and dragging Toby’s name through the mud. She threw my meager belongings onto the driveway and told me to get out. Sasha followed suit, publicly breaking our engagement. “A woman of my standing can’t be tied to a man with such a… public stain on his character,” she said coldly. I just nodded. I didn’t argue. They all thought I was playing a part—the stoic martyr, faking composure to make them feel guilty. They had no idea I was just counting the seconds. … In the courtyard, my father’s belt whistled through the air before snapping against my back. “Shameless! Disgusting! You are a cancer on this family!” I didn’t explain. I just gritted my teeth and took it. Experience had taught me that defending myself only made the beatings last longer. I had only been back in this house for a few weeks when it started. Toby had accused me of stealing his Patek Philippe. My parents tore my room apart; Madeline stripped me in front of the household staff to search my person. They found nothing. I thought I might get an apology. Instead, Madeline backhanded me so hard a tooth rattled loose in my mouth. “You must have sold it already! Where’s the money, you little thief?” My room was the size of a closet. I didn’t even have a bank account. When I tried to speak, she kicked me until I coughed up blood. Then, Toby let out a choreographed gasp. “Oh! Here it is. It was under the rug.” The diamond-encrusted watch caught the sunlight, blindingly bright. I looked at Madeline, waiting for a flicker of regret. There was none. She just smoothed her skirt and said, “A minor misunderstanding. Get over it. I’m Toby’s sister; I trust him implicitly.” She knew she was Toby’s sister. She just seemed to have forgotten she was mine, too. Now, in the courtyard, the belt continued to fall. My skin was a roadmap of angry red welts. Madeline stood by, watching with bored eyes. She was the one who had encouraged Toby to humiliate me, yet she hated me for the “scandal” it caused. She told me to rot in the street. “You’re leaving?” my father roared, his face puce with rage. “You want to go out there and embarrass us more? No. You’ll stay here and learn your place.” After two hours of the “family discipline,” my mother finally looked up from her tea, frowning. “Enough, Adam. It’s unsightly. Let him crawl to the shrine, do ninety-nine prostrations, and write a ten-thousand-word confession in his own blood. Then we’ll consider the matter closed.” My father tossed the belt aside, huffing. “You’re too soft on him.” Soft. I almost wanted to laugh. The prostrations had to be audible—forehead hitting the stone floor hard enough to echo, or they didn’t count. The confession had to be written with a needle and a steady supply of my own veins. If it wasn’t sincere enough, they’d make me start over. I didn’t argue. I banged my head against the stone until I blacked out, woke up when they splashed ice water on me, and kept going. I wrote twenty thousand words, each letter a drop of my life, a testament to a humility I didn’t truly feel. I thought it would be enough. Toby walked in, covering his nose and taking a theatrical step back. “Ugh, Madeline. It’s not that I don’t want him in the house, but… he smells like a sewer.” Madeline ruffled his hair affectionately, then spared me a sideways glance. “You’re right. He’s not fit for the servant’s quarters. Put him in the pit with Apollo.” Apollo was Toby’s pet Burmese python. And I have a paralyzing, primal fear of snakes. I remembered the day the police brought me home. Toby had looked at me with that same disgust back then. Madeline hadn’t put me in the snake pit then—she’d just forced me to sleep in the dog crate. The Golden Retriever’s crate was actually larger than the room I eventually got, and as long as Toby didn’t give the command, the dog didn’t bite. I could almost sleep there. But the snake pit? I couldn’t do it. I collapsed at my parents’ feet, sobbing, my forehead bleeding onto the carpet. “Please, Mom, Dad… I’ll leave. I’ll go back to the dog crate. Just please, don’t put me in there.” For a second, I saw a flicker of hesitation in my father’s eyes. He started to open his mouth, but Madeline lunged forward, grabbing me by the collar. “Stop faking it, Gavin! If it weren’t for you, this family wouldn’t be a laughingstock! You should be grateful we’re giving you a roof at all.” She dragged me toward the glass-enclosed habitat in the back of the house. I looked back at my father one last time. He looked away. The stench of musk and rot inside the pit made me gag. I felt the dry, rhythmic flick of a tongue against my cheek. As I closed my eyes, waiting for the end, a cold, mechanical voice echoed in my mind: “Countdown to completion: Forty-eight hours.” Suddenly, the panic subsided. I forced my breathing to slow. Two days. I just had to survive two more days. Three years ago, Toby had developed a stomach ache after dinner. He’d pointed a trembling finger at me, accusing me of lacing his food with laxatives. Before I could even process the lie, Madeline had pinned me down and forced a whole bottle of castor oil down my throat. I spent that night huddled on the bathroom floor, cramping so hard I wished for death. The family didn’t check on me; they were all at the hospital, holding Toby’s hand. In that moment of near-death, the voice first appeared. “Host vitals dropping. Emergency binding: Retribution System initiated. Task: Survive for three years. Success: Total karmic backlash for tormentors, $100 million cash reward. Failure: Soul erasure.” I thought it was a hallucination. But when I woke up the next morning, the pain was gone, and the timer was running. I became a ghost in that house—silent, compliant, waiting. I focused on memories of nature documentaries, trying to stay perfectly still. The python slithered over my legs, its scales cold and heavy. Outside the glass, Toby was holding Sasha’s hand, a cruel smirk on his face. “Look at him, Sasha. Your ‘fiancé’ is so pathetic he’s shacking up with a snake. Do you feel bad for him?” Sasha didn’t even look at me. She was scrolling through her phone. “Don’t be silly. I don’t have a fiancé. That contract was trash the moment he fell into the pit.” Even now, that hurt. Sasha was different—or she used to be. We grew up together in the state orphanage. When she arrived, she had a broken leg and a spirit so crushed she wouldn’t eat. I protected her. I stole food for her. I took the beatings from the older boys so they wouldn’t mess with her. One winter, a group of bullies took her crutches to use as firewood. I tackled them, and they tied me to a tree in the middle of a blizzard, using me as a target for ice-packed snowballs. My nose was broken, blood staining the white snow. Sasha held me all night after I was cut down, her tears warm against my frozen skin. “Gavin,” she had whispered. “When I grow up, I’m going to protect you. I promise.” I believed her. When the police found my real family—the wealthy, prestigious family I’d been snatched from—the first thing I did was use my leverage to find her biological family. It turned out she was an illegitimate daughter, dumped by a family that didn’t want the scandal. I begged my parents to arrange an engagement, to give her a path back into high society. Madeline called me pathetic for wanting a girl so soon after coming home. I knelt in the rain for seven days, fasting, until my knees were raw, just to get that signature on a marriage contract. The day I picked her up from the orphanage, she cried and held me. “Gavin, as soon as I’m settled, I’m yours.” But she never became mine. She tore up the contract in front of everyone. She handed me over to Toby to be mocked. When did it change? Maybe it was the first time Toby called her “Big Sister Sasha.” He was polished, clean, and knew exactly how to play the “wounded bird” better than I ever could. He’d lean into her and whisper, “You only agreed to marry Gavin because you felt obligated, right? It must be such a burden.” And she never disagreed. Once, at a gala, I drank until my stomach bled to protect her from a group of aggressive investors. I collapsed in the hallway, and she just stepped over me. “You’re embarrassing me, Gavin,” she’d said. I tried to talk about our wedding, about rings. She’d just pluck a blade of grass from the lawn, wrap it around my finger, and laugh. “There’s your ring.” Then, an hour later, she’d spend six figures at an auction to buy a watch for Toby. I asked her once, “Sasha, do you remember the orphanage? Do you remember the tree?” She laughed—a sound so full of mockery I didn’t recognize her. “Gavin, are you seriously bringing that up again? Yes, you helped me. And you’ve used that debt to anchor me to you for years. Isn’t that enough?” Anchor her? I had sacrificed everything for her future. “Let’s be real,” she continued. “You only wanted this marriage because you’re the unloved son. You knew no one else would have you, so you clung to me. You’re just desperate for someone to belong to.” Something inside me finally shattered. Toby’s laughter snapped me back to the present. “Sasha, don’t be so mean. He was your boyfriend for a decade.” Sasha sneered. “A boyfriend? He was a charity project that went on too long.” I took a deep breath and whispered to the system, “Does betrayal count toward the backlash?” “Affirmative. Every ounce of pain the Host feels will be reflected. But only if you survive the final countdown.” Toby tapped on the glass, looking annoyed. “This is boring. He’s not moving. He looks like a corpse, and Apollo doesn’t like dead things.” He tugged on Sasha’s arm. “Sasha, get him out of there. I want to see him cry.” Sasha hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded. She hauled me out of the pit. The sudden sunlight was blinding. “Toby wants to see tears,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of heat. I didn’t move. Toby picked up a piece of coarse sandpaper from a nearby workbench. He started rubbing it against my cheek with a terrifyingly sweet smile. “Does it hurt now, Gavin? Can you cry now?” My face was raw, bleeding, but my eyes were bone dry. Sasha lost her patience and kicked me in the shoulder. I fell back, my head cracking against the concrete. “Cry!” she demanded, looming over me. When I stayed silent, she kicked me again—hard, in the ribs. I dry-heaved, the air knocked out of me. I wanted to live, but I couldn’t force a sob. I slowly pushed myself up into a kneeling position. I bowed my head until it touched the ground. “I’m sorry.” Toby blinked, then chuckled. “What is he doing? Why is he apologizing?” “That’s just Gavin,” a voice said from the doorway. Madeline. She walked over, her face twisted in its habitual mask of disgust. “This is how he lives. You hit him, he kneels. You scream at him, he bows. He’s a dog.” Toby’s eyes lit up. “Really? Then make him bark.” Madeline looked at me, her expression dead. “Did you hear him? Bark for Toby.” I was on my knees in the dirt. These three stood over me, framed by the golden afternoon sun like icons of grace, while I sat in the shadows, smelling of the pit. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Madeline’s face darkened. She grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head back. “Bark!” The pain was searing. I had to stand on my tiptoes just to keep my scalp from tearing. I looked into her eyes. She was my sister. When we were children, a kidnapper had tried to grab her. I was the one who threw myself at his legs, screaming for her to run. He had picked me up and slammed me into the ground, leaving me for dead in a ditch. I spent two months in a makeshift hospital, barely holding on. “Woof. Woof.” My voice was barely a whisper. Toby pouted. “That’s not convincing at all. He needs a tail.” He told Sasha to get a length of heavy nylon rope. Madeline tied one end around my waist and handed the other to Toby. “Crawl,” she commanded. “Wherever Toby leads, you follow.” I didn’t move. She kicked the back of my knee, and I collapsed. I began to crawl. The gravel dug into my palms. “Slow down,” Sasha said from behind. “Don’t let Toby trip.” Toby led me through the mud, up the stone steps, laughing like a child. When we were far enough away from the others, he leaned down, whispering in my ear. “I hate you, Gavin. I want you dead. Do you know why? Years ago, when you escaped that basement, you went to the police. You gave them the evidence that sent my father to prison for life.” My heart hammered against my ribs. The kidnapper. The man who had kept twenty children in a cellar. I had watched him kill a six-year-old girl because she wouldn’t stop crying. He told us, “Anyone else wants to go play with her?” I had jumped into a river to escape him while he pelted me with rocks. I nearly drowned. And my parents had adopted his son. My sister adored him. My fiancé chose him. “I’m not afraid of you telling,” Toby hissed. “No one believes a dog. I just wanted you to know how much I enjoy watching you rot.” He laughed, and something inside me snapped. I lunged upward, grabbing the rope and looping it around his throat. “Your father was a murderer!” I screamed, my eyes burning. “That girl was six years old!” Toby hadn’t expected me to fight back. He flailed, his face turning a panicked shade of red. “GAVIN!” A roar came from behind me. Before I could turn, I was ripped away and slammed into the ground. Sasha put her boot on my chest, pressing down until I felt my ribs groan. “You’re insane!” she hissed. “His father was a monster—” I choked out. SLAP. Madeline’s hand caught me across the face. I tasted copper. “We checked Toby’s records before we adopted him,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “He’s clean. If you’re going to lie, at least try to be believable.” “It’s not a lie!” I shrieked. “Check the records from six years ago! The man named Miller—” “Gavin,” Sasha said, her foot pressing harder. “I used to think you were just pathetic. Now I see you’re malicious.” Toby rubbed his neck, squeezing out a few crocodile tears. “If you hadn’t come… he would have killed me.” Madeline’s eyes turned murderous. She dragged me toward the back corner of the estate, where an old piece of construction equipment sat—a heavy wooden pallet riddled with rusted, six-inch nails, once used to deter trespassers. “Throw him on it.” Before I could process what was happening, Madeline and Sasha hoisted me up and slammed me down onto the bed of nails. The screams that tore from my throat didn’t sound human. The rusted iron pierced my back, my shoulders, my thighs. Blood surged from a hundred punctures, soaking the wood instantly. I tried to thrash, but the barbs held me fast, grinding into my muscle with every movement. “Think about what you’ve done,” Madeline said. Then they walked away. I lay there as the sun dipped below the horizon. Every breath was a fresh agony. My vision began to fray at the edges. The system’s voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well. “Host vitals critical… final countdown initiated…” I bit through my lip, using the pain to stay conscious for the last few seconds. Finally, the voice chimed, clear and sweet: “Congratulations, Host. Three-year term complete. Calculating retribution rewards…”

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The screams from our bedroom on our wedding night were guttural, a primal shredding of the soul. Every time she cried out, “Please, help me!” it felt like a branding iron pressed against my eardrums. My fingers shook as I turned the deadbolt in the study, locking myself in. Through the narrow gap in the door, I saw a jagged shadow draped over her, a silhouette of violence. I bit my lip until the copper taste of blood filled my mouth. When the heavy thud of a body hitting the pavement echoed from the street below, I knew the world had ended. Her parents knelt before me later, foreheads bruised from begging for the truth. I gripped the police report until my knuckles turned white and my veins throbbed. “I didn’t see anything,” I lied. For five years, I woke up at midnight, my pillow soaked in a cold, panicked sweat. Then, my brother-in-law finally dragged me into a courtroom. They pressed the cold electrodes of a memory extraction device against my temples. When the holographic projection flickered to life on the public screens, showing my cowardly self cowering under a desk, the gallery gasped in unison. They didn’t just see a monster’s crime; they saw how a husband’s silence could kill his bride just as surely as a blade. … 1. Five years after the “Wedding Night Tragedy.” I stood there, the sole witness and the primary suspect, finally facing a public hearing. Technology had caught up to my secrets. The state was using Neural Recall Imaging—the latest tech to pull memories directly from the folds of the brain and project them onto high-definition screens, a frame-by-frame reconstruction of that night. To witness the “truth,” the courtroom was packed with thousands of spectators, and the livestream numbers had climbed to a staggering two hundred million. People wanted blood. On the bench sat my brother-in-law, Detective Tyler Beckett. His face was a mask of cold stone. He didn’t look at me like family. He looked at me like a stain. “Bring in the witness, Cade Mercer,” he commanded. The heavy doors groaned open. I walked out in a faded blue-and-white jumpsuit, the heavy rattle of shackles dragging behind me. I kept my head down. I hadn’t taken ten steps before the first rotten egg hit my shoulder, followed by a shower of trash and venomous insults. “Coward! You watched your wife get destroyed and you just sat there!” “Madeline has been in a coma for five years because you refused to name the man who did it!” “Who are you protecting? Was the money worth her life?” The vitriol was a physical weight. People lunged at the barricades, their faces twisted with a self-righteous fury. The bailiffs had to fire a warning shot into the ceiling just to keep the mob from tearing me apart. When I was forced onto the stand, Tyler stepped down. He didn’t hesitate. He drove his knee into my gut with the precision of a trained fighter. I saw stars, the air leaving my lungs in a wheeze. I collapsed to my knees, coughing up a streak of red onto the polished floor. Nobody felt sorry for me. The room erupted in cheers. Tyler grabbed a fistful of my hair, jerking my head back so our eyes met. “Cade,” he hissed, his voice a jagged blade in my ear. “When the truth comes out today, I’m going to make sure you burn right alongside whoever you’ve been hiding.” The hatred in his eyes was absolute. It was impossible to reconcile this man with the bright-eyed kid who used to call me “brother” and ask for help with his bar exam prep. In the front row, Arthur and Martha—Madeline’s parents—looked like they had aged twenty years. They leaned on each other, their eyes brimming with a quiet, lethal resentment. “Madeline loved you,” Martha whispered, her voice carrying through the sudden silence. “She gave you everything. And you let her die in that room.” When we were first engaged, these two intellectuals hadn’t cared about my blue-collar roots. They had treated me like their own son. Even after the attack, they didn’t blame me at first. They told me it was okay to be scared. They begged me to just speak. But I had remained a vault. Even when they knelt on my doorstep, I stayed silent. I had spent five years in a cell, enduring Tyler’s “interrogations.” The system looked the other way because of my notoriety. They let him break my ribs and keep me in the dark, hoping he’d squeeze the truth out of me. I had nearly died three times. I never broke. Now, the machine was the only hope left. Tyler picked up a surgical prep blade. Without a hint of mercy or anesthesia, he shaved a patch of my hair and drove the five-centimeter metal interface directly into my skull. My body convulsed. White foam gathered at the corners of my mouth. A doctor stepped forward with a sedative, but Tyler blocked him. “He’s tough. He won’t die that easily,” Tyler snapped. “I want him wide awake. I want him to feel the agony of his own cowardice being broadcast to the world.” He gave the signal. The NRI hummed to life. The first image flickered onto the screen. 2. The light on the screen stabilized into a soft, golden hue. It was the university library. I was sitting by the window, buried in a textbook. I looked up, and there was Madeline. She was on her tiptoes, sliding a copy of The Little Prince onto the table next to me. The “me” on the screen reached out and ruffled her hair. she leaned her chin on my shoulder, her voice soft and sweet. “Once you graduate, let’s get that tiny apartment by the park,” she whispered. “I’ll cook, you’ll do the dishes, and we’ll spend our Saturdays at the farmer’s market. Deal?” The scene shifted. A cramped kitchen in a shitty rental. The smell of sautéed onions practically wafted off the screen. “Wash your hands, Cade! I got my paycheck today—I bought those steaks you like!” I walked over and wrapped my arms around her from behind. BEEP. System detects high-priority emotional anchor. The courtroom erupted again. “You animal! How dare you remember those moments!” “Madeline fought her own family to be with a guy like you! She gave you her heart, and you gave her a life sentence in a hospital bed!” “Does it hurt, Cade? Seeing how happy she was before you ruined her?” The insults were a tide, drowning the room. More trash flew at me. The bailiffs struggled to hold back the crowd. The noise was a dull roar in my ears. Tyler kicked me again, sending me sprawling. My knees hit the stone floor with a sickening crack. “Cade Mercer!” Tyler’s voice was pure ice. “You don’t get to keep those memories. You don’t deserve them.” I lay there, my vision blurred, looking toward Arthur and Martha. Martha was sobbing into her husband’s chest. Arthur’s hands were shaking so violently he had to grip his knees. He looked at me as if I were a demon crawled up from the vents. “If she knew what you’d become,” Arthur said, “she would have chosen the grave over you.” The screen changed again. It was our wedding photo shoot. Madeline was in her white dress, twirling on the grass, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm. “Enough!” Tyler roared. He reached for the interface on my head. “Shut it down! I won’t let him hide in the past!” The technician grabbed his arm. “Detective, stop! If you interrupt the sync now, you’ll cause permanent brain damage!” “Damage?” Tyler sneered. “He’s lucky I haven’t put a bullet in him myself. Why does he get to bask in her light while she rots in the ICU? It’s a joke!” The screams for my death grew louder. I lay on the floor, blood trickling from my mouth. Those memories—the ones that had kept me sane through five years of isolation—were now the very blades being used to flay me alive. You don’t understand, I thought, my mind screaming into the void. None of you understand. “Understand what?” Tyler grabbed me by the hair and slammed my face into the floor. “We know you hid in the study while she screamed! We know you protected a monster for five years! What else is there?” My forehead split open. Blood clouded my eyes. I knew they hated me. I knew they thought I was a spineless collaborator. But I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t ever speak. Because some truths are far more corrosive than death. 3. My fingers brushed against the jagged piece of ceramic hidden in my sleeve—a shard I’d broken off a bowl in the holding cell. It was razor-sharp. In the split second Tyler loosened his grip to bark an order at the tech, I flipped my wrist. I drove the shard into my own carotid artery. Hot, thick blood sprayed across my jumpsuit. Let it end, I prayed. No more torture. No more machines. The secret would stay buried in the dark where it belonged. Madeline, I’m sorry. This is the only way I can protect what’s left of you. “Stop him!” Tyler’s voice was a thunderclap. Suddenly, a weight crashed into me, pinning me to the floor. The bailiffs wrenched my arms back, crushing the shard out of my hand. Tyler knelt over me, his face inches from mine as he watched the blood pulse out of my neck. “You want to die, Cade? Not a chance.” His voice was a low, terrifying rumble. “Not until I find him. Not until Madeline wakes up. You stay alive if I have to sew you back together myself.” Medics swarmed the stand with hemostats and gauze. Tyler stood over them, barking orders. “Give him a stimulant. Give him a coagulant. I don’t care what it takes, keep his heart beating!” “Detective, the dosage… it could cause irreversible neurological collapse,” the doctor stammered. “Collapse?” Tyler laughed, a harsh, dry sound. “He’s a waste of oxygen. As long as his brain can project that night, I don’t care if he ends up a vegetable.” The doctor didn’t argue further. He plunged a needle into my vein, pushing a heavy dose of adrenaline and stabilizers. My heart didn’t just beat; it slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird. My muscles locked in a permanent, agonizing cramp. They hauled me back into the chair. My neck was a mess of bandages and seeping red, but the drugs kept me conscious. I couldn’t even faint. I was a prisoner in my own screaming body. “Continue the extraction!” Tyler commanded. The technician hit the switch. The metal probe in my skull began to hum, a high-pitched vibration that felt like a drill spinning at ten thousand RPMs. I felt a cold, invasive force tearing through my mind, bypasses my defenses, digging into the strata of my deepest, most guarded memories. “Warning! Subject is resisting extraction!” “Warning! Brain waves are erratic!” “Warning! Intracranial pressure exceeding safety thresholds!” The screen blurred. The happy memories shattered like glass, replaced by jagged, flickering static. My veins stood out like ropes on my forehead. The pain was a physical entity—a thousand needles driven into the soft tissue of my brain. “Stop! We have to stop!” one of the experts shouted. “He’s going to stroke out! Even if he’s a liar, he’s still a citizen—we don’t have the right to execute him on the stand!” A few people in the gallery murmured in agreement. “Yeah, we need him alive to find the killer.” But the mob drowned them out. “Kill him! Let him burn! Find the man who hurt Madeline!”

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To celebrate my parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary, I’d gone all out. I picked Lumière, a high-end bistro known more for its hushed atmosphere and hand-painted silk wallpaper than its portions. It was supposed to be a night of soft jazz and expensive Cabernet. Then the check arrived. I stared at the leather folder, my heart skipping a beat before settling into a panicked thud. The total was sixty-two thousand dollars. Our dinner—the three of us—shouldn’t have topped four hundred, even with the wine. This wasn’t a typo; it was a fantasy. I immediately flagged down the server. Her explanation was delivered with a practiced, robotic tilt of the head. Apparently, a gentleman hosted a “Graduation Gala” for his son in the private ballroom and instructed the staff to “put it on his niece’s tab.” She claimed he told them I had authorized it. Then, she handed me a scrap of paper—a cocktail napkin with a scribbled, illegible note that looked like it had been written by someone mid-seizure. I didn’t believe a word of it. Without a second of hesitation, I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. “I’d like to report a grand larceny and fraud in progress at Lumière on 5th Avenue,” I said, my voice cutting through the ambient noise of the room. “The amount is sixty-two thousand dollars.” 01 My voice wasn’t loud, but in a room designed for “discreet elegance,” it landed like a grenade. At the mention of “sixty thousand,” the clinking of silverware at the neighboring tables stopped. The young server’s professional mask didn’t just slip; it shattered. Her face went from ivory to a sickly, translucent gray. She looked at me, then at the phone pressed to my ear, as if I were holding a live wire. “Ma’am… you… you can’t…” My father, Robert, and my mother, Ellen, were frozen in a state of pure, bewildered shock. They looked at each other, their eyes wide with the “how did we get here?” look of people who had spent their entire lives following the rules. My father, a man who believed “making a scene” was a cardinal sin, was already breaking out in a cold sweat. “Natalie, honey,” he whispered, reaching for my arm. “Maybe there’s a mistake. Just hang up. Let’s talk to them first.” My mother nodded frantically, her face flushed with the embarrassment of being watched. “Yes, the police… that’s so extreme. What if it’s just a distant cousin playing a prank? Someone had too much to drink?” I understood them. They were retired teachers who had lived a quiet, suburban life. To them, the “police” were people who appeared in news segments about tragedies or criminals. They didn’t see themselves as the protagonists of a crime. But I didn’t hang up. I calmly gave the dispatcher the exact address and added, “Yes, I’m here now. I will be waiting for the officers to arrive.” I ended the call. A heavy, suffocating silence descended on the lobby. The server, seemingly drained of all strength, turned and bolted toward the manager’s office. Less than a minute later, a man in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit emerged. He had a prominent stomach, a slicked-back pompadour that shone under the chandeliers, and a nameplate that read: Mr. Prescott. Mr. Prescott arrived with a flourish of false concern. “Ms. Hastings, please! Let’s be reasonable. There’s no need to involve the authorities in a simple misunderstanding. This is a small matter, really.” He stood by our table, his eyes flicking over me—assessing my shoes, my watch, the leather of my handbag. He was calculating my net worth in real-time. Finding it sufficient, his smile widened. He picked up the sixty-two-thousand-dollar bill and the scribbled napkin, squinting at them as if they were ancient scrolls. “Ah, I see… the handwriting… yes…” He dragged out the words. “It looks like it was your uncle. Perhaps he wanted to surprise you? Why don’t you give him a call? Among family, these things are better handled privately, don’t you think?” He said “family matter” with a pointed emphasis, trying to twist a commercial fraud into a domestic squabble. My parents were wavering. I could see my father’s posture wilting under the manager’s “authority.” He forced a nervous smile. “See? Mr. Prescott is right. Natalie, maybe it’s just… you know, that cousin Jerry? He was always a bit of a loose cannon…” My mother was already fumbling with her phone. “Do we even have an ‘Uncle Jerry’ in the city?” In that moment, a cold, sharp anger flared in my chest. My parents were good, honest people, but that very goodness made them vulnerable. They were being gaslit into self-doubt by a man in a fancy suit. This was exactly what scammers and predatory businesses counted on. I took a slow breath, pushing the fire down into a cold, hard diamond of resolve. “Mr. Prescott.” My voice was quiet, but it cut through his prattle like a blade. He stopped, his smile faltering. I met his gaze and spoke with clinical precision. “First, let me be clear: neither I, nor my family, have an ‘Uncle Jerry’ or any relative currently hosting a gala in this building.” “Second,” I continued, “you allowed a sixty-thousand-dollar charge to be transferred to my bill without a signature, without a phone call, and without a pre-authorization on my credit card, based solely on a napkin from a stranger. Tell me—is that the ‘Lumière Standard’ of service?” I didn’t raise my voice, but every word was a nail being driven home. Prescott’s smile vanished, replaced by a dark, offended sneer. “We saw the gentleman speaking with your party earlier. He seemed very familiar with you, and he was quite adamant that you were covering the event. We were simply trying to be accommodating…” I cut him off. “‘He seemed familiar’? ‘He was adamant’? Is that your risk management protocol for a high-end establishment?” I gestured to the sprawling crystal chandelier and the velvet-lined walls. “You spent millions on the decor, yet your billing system is less secure than a lemonade stand? Even a street vendor asks for the money before they hand over the hot dog.” The irony wasn’t lost on the room. Several diners at the next table let out a muffled snicker. Whispers started rippling through the dining room. “She’s right. Sixty grand on a napkin? That’s insane.” “I’m checking my bill twice before I leave this place.” “God, imagine if they did that to us.” The murmurs were like needles pricking Prescott’s ego. His face flushed a deep, angry crimson. He lost his corporate polish and bared his teeth. “Miss! Do not make a scene! You are disrupting our business! The bill has been verified. If you do not settle this amount, we have every right to detain you until the matter is resolved!” A threat. A naked, ugly threat. I didn’t flinch. I smiled. I pulled out my phone, angled the camera toward his contorted face, and hit ‘record.’ The red ‘REC’ light blinked steadily between us. “Please,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Say that again. Look right into the lens and tell the world—and the police who are currently three minutes away—that Lumière intends to hold us under illegal private imprisonment before the authorities arrive.” Prescott’s bravado popped like a pricked balloon. He stared at the lens as if it were the barrel of a gun. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. His face turned from beet-red to a sickly purple. Behind me, I felt my parents shift. They were looking at me with a complex mix of shock and a sudden, burgeoning pride. They were seeing, perhaps for the first time, that their daughter wasn’t someone who needed protecting anymore. She was the one holding the line. The lobby remained in a tense standoff. And I was just waiting for my backup. 02 About ten minutes later, the revolving glass doors reflected the rhythmic strobes of red and blue. Two uniformed officers entered. One was older, with the weary, cynical eyes of a man who had seen every scam in the city. The younger one held a body cam, his expression neutral. Their presence acted like a gust of fresh air, clearing the stagnant, toxic tension in the lobby. Every head turned. Prescott, who had been a snarling dog seconds ago, underwent a miraculous transformation. His face melted into a submissive, oily grin. He practically scurried toward the officers, bowing so low he was nearly doubled over. “Officers! Thank you for coming. So sorry for the trouble on such a busy night. It’s nothing, really—just a little family misunderstanding. A private matter!” He tried to use his bulk to steer them toward a corner for a “private chat.” Officer Henderson, the senior lead, didn’t even look at him. He sidestepped Prescott and walked straight to me. “You the one who called?” “I am,” I said, standing up. In front of the law, I delivered the facts. No fluff, no emotional outbursts—just a crisp executive summary, the same way I delivered risk reports at the firm. “…and that brings us to this. A sixty-two-thousand-dollar bill, and this napkin from a supposed ‘uncle.’” I handed over the leather folder and the scrap of paper. Henderson took them. The younger officer focused his body cam on the evidence. I pointed to the napkin. “Officer, notice a few things. One: there is no full name, only ‘Jerry,’ and no contact information. Would a relative truly intending to host a party act this clandestinely?” “Two: the note claims I ‘authorized’ this, yet there is no proof. No recorded call, no text thread, no signature. The restaurant transferred a five-figure debt based on a verbal claim from a stranger. Logically, it’s a farce.” Henderson nodded slowly. He turned to Prescott, his gaze sharpening. “How do you explain this? You didn’t verify a sixty-thousand-dollar transfer with the party being billed?” The sweat on Prescott’s forehead was now a river, carving paths through his bronzer. He dabbed at his face with a silk handkerchief, stammering. “Officer, we… the gentleman, Mr. Garrick was so certain, and they… they looked so close…” His voice trailed off into a pathetic squeak. Then, the silence was broken by a frantic sound. The young server from earlier came running back, clutching a cordless phone as if it were a ticking bomb. “Mr. Prescott! The phone! It’s for Ms. Hastings. It’s… it’s her uncle!” The word ‘uncle’ hit the room like a physical weight. Every eye, including the officers’, snapped to the phone. I felt a cold smirk touch my lips. Unbelievable. This man was either the bravest idiot in the city or so arrogant he thought he could talk his way out of a police report. Officer Henderson’s eyes glinted. He gave me a subtle nod and whispered to his partner, “Make sure the audio is recording.” He gestured to me. “Take it.” I took the phone from the server’s trembling hand. Under the collective gaze of the entire restaurant, I pressed the speakerphone button. A man’s voice, oily and forcedly cheerful, filled the air. “Hey, Natalie? It’s your Uncle Jerry!” 03 “It’s your Uncle Jerry, sweetheart!” The voice was dripping with a synthetic, “long-lost relative” warmth. Behind me, my mother shook her head, mouthing the words, I don’t know him. My father’s brow was furrowed so deeply it looked painful. I gripped the phone, my voice a flat line of professional indifference. “I don’t know who you are.” A booming, fake laugh erupted from the speaker. “Oh, come on! You always were a kidder. How could you forget your favorite uncle? I used to bounce you on my knee back at the old park near your house! Don’t tell me your memory is that short.” It was clever. He didn’t name the park or the city. He used the “old park” trope, a vague hook that fits almost anyone’s childhood. But I wasn’t “anyone.” I stayed silent, letting the dead air pressure him. He took my silence for hesitation. His tone shifted to something more “fatherly” and manipulative. “Look, Natalie, I heard you were taking your folks out for their anniversary. Such a wonderful thing! I figured, hey, my boy is celebrating his graduation tonight too—why not make it a double celebration? We’re family. We shouldn’t be counting pennies.” Here it was. The first layer of the emotional shakedown. “You’ve done so well for yourself, big job, big money. Surely you wouldn’t begrudge your own blood a dinner? Your parents are right there, aren’t they? You really want to make a scene in front of them? Call the cops? Think of how embarrassed they’ll be. You’re making them look bad in front of everyone.” He was throwing everything at the wall—guilt, shame, the “model daughter” trope. He was trying to tie me in knots with the very values my parents raised me with. It worked on my father. He let out a huff of indignation and snatched the phone from my hand. “Who the hell is this?” he barked. “I’m warning you, stop lying! We don’t have an ‘Uncle Jerry’ and you’re slandering my daughter!” My dad’s outburst was impulsive, but it warmed my heart. In the end, he was a protector. I took the phone back, stepping back into the lead. My voice was like a scalpel. “Mr. Garrick, or whoever you are. If you’re family, this is very easy to prove.” I paused, ensuring the officers were listening. “Right now, in front of these two police officers, I want you to tell me my grandmother’s maiden name. Or my mother’s middle name. Get one right, and I’ll pay the sixty thousand right now.” The torrent of words on the other end stopped instantly. A heavy, static-filled silence echoed through the speaker. Every person in the lobby held their breath. Prescott looked like he’d just swallowed a live wasp. A few seconds later, the mask slipped. “Jerry” turned into a cornered rat. His voice became shrill, jagged, and foul. “You little bitch! Who do you think you are? You talk to your elders like that? You get a little education and suddenly you’re too good for us? I’m telling you, you’re paying that bill. One way or another, you’re paying. Don’t make me come over there and teach you some manners!” A threat of physical violence. The “kind uncle” was gone, replaced by a street-level thug. I smiled—a cold, terrifyingly sharp smile. “Respect is earned, not gifted. What room are you in, ‘Uncle’? Don’t hide behind a phone. The officers would love to discuss ‘family manners’ with you in person.” “Screw you!” he screamed, followed by a string of profanities that made the diners nearby gasp. Then, click. He hung up. The lobby was so quiet you could hear the hum of the air conditioning. Any doubt that this was a “misunderstanding” had evaporated. I set the phone down and looked at Prescott. He was the color of damp parchment. Officer Henderson looked at him too, his voice hard as iron. “Still think this is a ‘family matter,’ Mr. Prescott?” Prescott swayed on his feet. He knew the situation had spiraled completely out of his control. 04 Henderson’s eyes were like ice. “I want the security footage from the lobby, the host stand, and the hallways. Now.” Prescott didn’t argue. He practically tripped over his own feet rushing toward the back office. All his arrogance had leaked out of him, leaving nothing but a desperate, sweaty middle manager. Henderson turned to me, his tone softening a fraction. “Ms. Hastings, think back. From the moment you walked in until you sat down, did you notice anyone following you? Anyone lingering?” I closed my eyes, tapping into the observational skills I used to analyze market volatility. “We were led straight to our booth by the window. There was a man at the table next to us. Mid-fifties, dark navy jacket that didn’t quite fit his shoulders. He looked… restless. I noticed him glancing our way several times. When my father was talking about his retirement, the man leaned back, almost like he was trying to catch the frequency.” “I thought he was just a curious diner,” I added. “But now… he was hunting.” “Do you remember his face?” “Square jaw, tanned, thinning hair on top. When he looked at us, he had these deep crinkles around his eyes—the kind that make people look ‘trustworthy’ or ‘harmless.’ It’s a mask.” Just then, Prescott returned with a technician lugging a laptop. He was a broken man, nodding frantically. “We have it, Officer. Everything.” Henderson had another question ready. “The ‘Graduation Gala’—who booked it? What name and number are on the file?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “419163”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel